Someday
by Amarintha
Summary: So, what changed? warning for implied rape in the prologue, and for somewhat graphic violence.
1. Prologue

_warning: fairly graphic story for torture and rape. Especially this bit right here...thanks to PA Davis and Merisha as beta's, and then Sushi Chi as my comment!beta. _

**Prologue **

He pursued her into the old warehouse, dodging around stacks of dry concrete –'just add water'- listening to her breathing as she tried to hide herself from him. He would find her, and he laughed. Calling out to her, he heard the terrified hitch in her breath as he came upon her, huddled down beside a stack of the paper bags. Jerking her up by the hair, her fear turned him on like nothing else.

Each pathetic terrified breath surged through him just as he knew he would surge through her until she couldn't scream anymore.

Couldn't beg anymore.

Couldn't fight anymore.

Then she would be boring, and he would be done, sated. He pulled her up onto a stack of cement bags so she'd be high enough. She screamed and begged him: please don't. Please don't. Didn't realize the thrill it gave him to be in charge of her, on top of her. Forcing himself in her, just the idea of it was almost enough. She locked her legs together, screaming at him, clawing at him. He backhanded her savagely across the face, stunning her.

She could no longer keep herself away from him. Couldn't stop him. She deserved what he was going to do, hell maybe she even wanted it a little. Didn't know what she was missing, always making eyes at that other man. He'd teach her about real men. He fumbled his belt loose, making sure she was still stunned. Still his for the taking.

He'd seen her flirting with the other man in his group, Echo-2-1, seen how powerful that man was, and how this woman would have given herself to that other man. That goddamn man who took everything, outranked him in less time that he'd thought possible. Becoming a corporal in record time. Damn that man, well fine, he would take this woman. She would be easy to control, easy to have. She was weaker.

When she started to scream again as he forced her legs apart, he laughed, loving the power. There was nothing as powerful an aphrodisiac to him as her sobbing. Her throat started to give out and she could scream no more. He couldn't stop laughing at how easy it was. How easy it was to take her and dominate her, and how good it felt to be able to.

The control ran through him, and he barely noticed she wasn't struggling anymore. She had given herself over to his control. His pleasure. His needs. His lust.

He ran it all through her, into her. He reveled in himself, she was just there to come along for the ride.

"Hey! What's going on in here? You shouldn't be in here you idiot!" he was torn from his thoughts and his pleasure as he realized what would happen if, no, when he was caught.

"Oh my god, ma'am? Ma'am are you alright?!"

Goddamn Corporal John Fucking Winchester.


	2. Chapter 1

_Okay, long list of thanks. Sushi Chi...this story would have died at the prologue without her. Also, go read her Simple as Pie story. It's the shit, seriously. Thanks to PA Davis as usual for going "what bullshit were you trying to pull here?" and then me doing my best to fix it. I'm sure half of it is still crap. Oh well, I apologise, I tried. Thanks to Mish, who as usual, cheers me on when I have my "why bother?" moments. We need our own personal cheerleaders sometimes. (hah. Well..I'll leave the walker jokes out for now, but you know they're coming!) and then, thank you to Goddess Laughs, I swear to god the next chapter will have changes in it. Life is too stressful for me to have edited this chapter again.  
_

**Someday**

**Chapter One: **

As the sun hit his face Dean woke up with a yawn several minutes before his alarm was set to go off. It would be a good day, he figured. This was his second week as a freshman at the local high school. For once, he was fitting in and had friends.

His father had promised that they would stay for another month or two at the least. Turning off his alarm so it wouldn't disturb his father or brother, he got out of bed, digging his toes into the deep soft carpet. Pulling out a pair of jeans from a drawer, and not his duffel, he smiled again.

Feeling awake and refreshed the way he always did when the sun woke him in place of his alarm. He had once asked his father about it, to which John said that being jolted awake made you feel like you needed more sleep and were being deprived, but just waking up naturally made you feel rested and like it was just time. It made sense.

Selecting a soft undershirt, grey, and then his black Henley, he debated a soft linen over shirt, before pulling out boxer briefs and padding into the bathroom.

Sam was in grade school, and didn't have to leave for another hour, but high school started promptly at 7:30am.

Showering quickly, he was almost eager to get there. He had some teachers he liked, others he didn't, and more importantly, he liked his classes.

Making breakfast, Dean decided to cook pancakes, thrilled to actually have the luxury of a full pantry. Putting vanilla extract into the batter with the tiniest hint of almond extract, he heated the skillet to. He then put most of the pancakes on a plate and put it into the oven to stay warm for Sam and their dad. Putting the few he'd left for himself into a folded paper towel. Next he grabbed his backpack checked it for his homework and textbooks before running out of the apartment and down the stairs to meet Lily and Peter so they could all walk together.

Lily had beautiful black hair and dark skin that gave credit to her Native American heritage, and she was one of the nicest people in the world. Peter was about Dean's height, but with a stockier build, something he said came from his African roots.

"Want some pancakes?" Dean asked, considering they usually shared their lunches with him because school food was sometimes pretty nasty. Other times it could be okay, though.

"You make them yourself?" Lily asked, and he smiled with a nod. He handed her one, and she took a bite, eyes closing appreciatively.

"Dude, you are hella chipper this morning," Pete laughed. "I don't think I've ever seen you awake in the morning!" as Dean fell in step with them. "Tell me, Dean, what's the point of pancakes without syrup?"

Lily punched Pete's arm with a long suffering sigh. "Try one, they don't need syrup."

"Wish you could get Sam to believe that," Dean laughed.

"What'd…you didn't follow the recipe, did you?" she asked.

"Yes and no. I like to add my own stuff," like his mother used to. "You guys aren't allergic to almond, are you?" he asked guiltily.

"Nope! My mom makes a great almond cupcake, I'll see if I can get her to make some for us," Lily offered.

"We still on for the study session thing tonight?" Pete asked.

"If I fail a test ever again, my Dad'll kill me," Dean said by way of answer.

"You've failed a test," Pete asked skeptically. "Yeah right, like I'm gonna ever believe that one."

"I…we move around a lot, and sometimes I didn't pay much attention to things," Dean admitted sheepishly.

"Yeah but how hard could middle school have been?" Lily teased, finishing up her pancake.

"This is my fourth high school," he mumbled, but wasn't ashamed. As long as he didn't tell them about the demons, he could tell them anything. They were his friends.

"Can I come with you to help pick up Sam?" Lily asked. Considering she hated the idea of Dean waiting there alone for almost an hour and a half before grade school let out.

"Why don't you and Pete both come, and we can start studying early?"

"Sounds good t'me," Pete replied as they walked onto the school campus. Dean had two classes with Pete, three with Lily, and one with both of them. They also had lunch together, and tended to eat out on the steps -unless it was raining- instead of the louder lunch room. So used to being moved around and not spending time with people, crowded places like lunchrooms made Dean uncomfortable.

Pete split away from them but not before saying, "Don't piss off Mr. Engels, okay? Dude, cut him some slack it's first period!" Pete joked, watching Dean's face turn red.

--

His first day there had not been smooth by any means. He'd picked a fight with the biggest kid in school, pissed off all his teachers, and landed himself in the principal's office. All before fourth period was over. At lunch, Lily had just lit into him, sick of the trouble he was causing, and had asked him if he'd been raised in a barn, and told him his mother would be absolutely ashamed of him, behaving like that. He was better than that, and she clearly deserved a better son. She'd seen the hurt in his face. After class, he'd been sitting alone on the steps, and she'd come over.

_I'm sorry about your mom. I didn't know. My dad died, when I was eight, she'd told him, putting an arm around his shoulders. I started acting out, and Pete, he knew my dad was dead, and he'd known my dad. Said my dad would be ashamed of the girl I was. I cleaned up my act. I think you live in our building. Why don't you walk with me'n Pete?_

He'd let his head touch her shoulder, just for a second that day before they'd both stood, he'd explained he had to get his brother, and she'd offered to go with him. Keep him company. He'd told her no, but she'd come anyway. Took him about a week to settle in, and since then the three of them had all been good friends. Inseparable.

--

Two weeks later he practically moved into Lily's apartment because her mother was always around. She worked from home, and both Pete's parents worked and it sucked being alone from two-thirty to six every day. And Dean didn't like being alone any more than Pete, so he and Sammy spent a lot of time with Mrs. Brown and her daughter. It still made Dean smile when he thought about how he had been introduced.

_Dean this is my best friend. Oh, yeah, she's also my mom. Mom, this is Dean. He's our resident problem student. _

_He'd blushed, that wasn't quite fair. But, he'd seen the smile on Lily's face, and the wink she gave her mother. _

_Hey Dean. She'd shaken his hand. I know that you probably think I'm some boring old lady, she smiled, but I promise, I'm still hip and all that jazz. _

_He'd laughed. She'd looked indignantly at him, what AC/DC too old school for you? He'd liked her instantly. _

Classes passed easily, and Dean generally looked forward to lunch even though he hadn't been hungry the past few days. Mrs. Brown always packed Lily's lunches with enough food for all three of them, and Pete generally managed to have something to contribute. The best Dean could do was get school lunch free and see how much of the food bounced. So, in essence, he provided the entertainment. Sitting on the steps like that had become their custom since Lily had first come to him, "Whatcha got?" he asked.

"What's school lunch?  
"Those weird round pizza things. They don't bounce, we tried that last week."

"Darn. Carrots?"

"No, soup on the side."

"The soup might bounce," Lily suggested hopefully.

"Or it might come to life and eat us," Pete pointed out. Conversations were random, and never about anything important. Dean felt normal, talking with them, not like a freak, not like in elementary school or any of the others. Didn't matter he was the new kid, didn't matter that he'd acted out like that. They let him belong.

"So, I have what looks like six cookies," she said, passing two each out to her friends. "I also have celery sticks with peanut butter," she eyed Dean meaningfully.

"I eat veggies at home," he protested.

"Liar," she and Pete told him dryly. Rolling his eyes at them, Dean selected a celery stick and took an exaggerated bite.

"Oh my god, he's not dead yet. You owe me ten bucks," Pete told Lily. Dean glared.

"And I have three half sandwiches with a note that says we should all drop by after school."

"Like we don't anyway," Pete and Dean pointed out in unison, looking at each other in shock.

"Dude, that's just creepy," Dean told him. "Seriously not cool."

"See, here I was thinking you two were being cute."

They both stared at each other in horror before saying "Lil-_ee_!" in true double mint twin style.

She just giggled at them. "What'd your parents give you?"

"Some sort of granola bars…" he had two, which would get broken up and divided among them. "I've got a pudding cup."

"We could get extra spoons."

"Or dip the granola bars in it," Dean pointed out.

"That might make them almost edible," came Pete's casual reply.

"That bad?"

"Why do you think they're in _my_ lunch?" The three laughed and joked their way through the lunch break, and Dean managed to survive the rest of the day without mouthing off to any teachers. Pete was generally able to give him a look that would shut him up, and Lily would just reach over and pull his hair or twist his ear. Not hard enough to hurt him, she wasn't mean. She just didn't tolerate that kind of bull from him, and he knew it. Or at least he learned quickly enough what he could and couldn't get away with. But he liked them.

Dean was out of his seat in a flash when the bell rang "'Bout damn time," stretching out his body and rolling his neck until it popped. Sitting back in his chair he twisted his torso around to grip the back and pull until his back popped, then twisted the other way, repeating the process. "So, Sam's class gets out a little early today," Dean said, meaning they were going to have to walk fast.

"Race you."

"I'm not running with this bag on my shoulders, we'll just walk fast, like normal people."

"Kill joy."

Lily sighed, "someone here has to have a brain. It's not my fault that it's not one of you. Although, I can't say as I'm surprised. Women are the smarter members of the species."

"Well, in their own minds, at least," Dean quipped, running a few paces ahead to stay out of her reach. Pete laughed. Dean stopped suddenly, coughing hard.

"You okay dude?" Pete gripped Dean's shoulder tightly, Lily's face was the picture of concern.

"Yeah, I'm good," he wiped at his face a little. "Just a little sick. Sammy musta picked up a bug or something. Snotty germy little kids, y'know. I'm okay."

"It may have only been a few weeks, but we know when you're lying."

"Later okay? I just wanna get to Sam."

"He okay?"

"Yeah, he's fine, I just, they're getting out early, and Dad might come and pick us all up," Dean finished.

"You mean we might get to actually see the infamous John Winchester for more than two seconds? Let's go!" Soon Dean was the one being tugged forward. They ran into Sam's school building laughing. Dean collided with something very solid in the hallway, but before he was tipped over strong hands gripped his light jacket, hauling him up to his feet.

"Hi Dad!" he said breathlessly, before glancing at his friends and starting to laugh. "Dad, this is Pete, Pete my dad, Dad this is Lily, Lily, meet my dad." Grinning at his friends' faces, his father had that effect on people. John was tall and broad and powerful. People knew it just looking at him. What Dean really loved about his dad was that he could be a powerhouse, but he was still gentle with his kids. Good to Sam.

"Dad!" Sam shot out of his classroom, his teacher's protests left behind in his wake. John laughed, hauling Sam into his arms.

"You're way too big for this, y'know," John told him.

"But as long as I keep doing it, so will you," Sam pointed out, pushing away so that John would put him down. "Dean!" he slammed into his brother, hugging him tight.

"C'mon Sam, you're embarrassing me," Dean whined, his face going a little pink. Lily giggled helplessly at him, Pete doing his best to play the stoic guy friend and let Dean keep his dignity. John turned his attention to Dean's friends. He'd never really had time to look at or talk to them.

"You never told me Lily was pretty," he said eyeing his son, who turned a funny splotchy color, and Lily went pink under her brown skin. He'd sort of half noticed that Pete was black, and was proud of his son for not caring about things like that. A lot of people still did. John had grown up with those prejudices, especially in the south, and he liked to think that he was a forward thinking man, but sometimes it was hard to shake that mindset. He was proud that Dean seemed entirely ignorant there _was_ a mindset. They skirted around the janitor on the way out, careful not to step in the places he'd just mopped. John glanced at him, wondering if he knew the man, before shaking his head and moving ahead of the group to hold he door.

"Thanks Dad, but I got it," Dean tried to hold it for him.

"No, go'n with your friends," he said, giving his boy a light shove. "Get ahold of Sam before he does something stupid," John added, watching how oblivious the boy was to his surroundings. Too busy telling Dean's friends all about his day, and how smart he was. Kid couldn't help it. He let the door go once they were all through, responding to polite 'thank you's with a casual 'no problem' before taking the lead again. "You kids think I'm actually gonna let you ride home in my car?"

"The Impala?" Pete perked up. John laughed, eyeing his son. Kid had claimed bragging rights on the car, it seemed. Chuckling to himself, he nodded.

"Yeah, the Impala," he grinned. Didn't take him too long to get them all to the car.

"Shotgun!" Sam called right before Dean could open his mouth.

"You're too little to sit up in the front, and you know it! There're rules, Sam," Dean scolded irritably.

"Well Dad lets me!"

"It's not safe, Sam!"

"Lily, is it? Why don't you sit up front with me? Stuff all those idiots in the back. Well, sorry Pete didn't mean you were one, too. You think you can keep 'em from killing each other?" Then John turned and pulled Sam aside. "Don't fight with your brother today, okay? He's got friends, and they put up with you, which a lot of older kids won't do, and you know what's happening tomorrow, so just be nice." Catching Sam's eye, "it won't kill you." Then he pulled Sam to him in a hug, and let him go to crawl into the car.

"I want a window seat", he announced, then looked at his brother. "Dean, sit next to me," he asked. John recognized that look, no way was Dean going to be able to refuse.

"I hate sitting in the middle," he grumbled, crawling in through the other door so that he would be next to Sam, Pete slid in behind and closing the door almost reverently.

Clearly he'd heard Dean's stories about how the car had a soul, or something. Kept them all safe and alive when they traveled. Or forgot to lock the doors. So far no one had discovered their weapons cache in the trunk, and there had been times John thought that it was unavoidable. That and the car never seemed to really break down. It always seemed okay. The car ride was short, of course the kids normally walked home. Trouping up the stairs to their apartment, they first stopped when Pete stopped on his floor to dump his bags, claiming he didn't have any homework. Lily's floor was above theirs, so she would just hold onto her bag.

"Dean, you tell them yet?"

"Tell us what?" came Lily's instant reply. Dean was generally good at hiding things. Like that when he'd first come to school the reason he wouldn't go swimming with them was a wall of bruises on his abdomen. In gym when he'd raised his arms to do chin-ups she'd seen.

"I," Dean flushed and glared angrily at his father.

"Guess not, told you to tell them days ago, when we first found out." John frowned a little at his son, generally Dean was a good kid, obedient. Nothing like this usually happened. Then again, it'd been a long time since he'd had friends. Probably didn't know how they would react.

"I need you guys to pick up my homework for the next couple of days. Tomorrow and then Monday and Tuesday. If you could. I mean….and then…uh," he ran a hand through his hair, letting the movement bring his hand to the back of his neck. "If on Friday you could pick Sam up…I know it's a lot to ask and all that, I just…I won't be able to, and Dad has to work. Today is just special, and…"

"Why're you gonna miss school?" Pete asked.

"I…" he forced a little laugh. "Um, surgery. It's seriously nothing big. It turns out that I have a few really small tears in some organs…from a fall." His eyes met Lily's. "You remember when you saw my stomach that one time?" she nodded. "The doctors said I was fine, hadn't even fractured a rib when I fell. They….it was a small clinic, not well equipped. So, when I…my dad figured I was sick, and dragged me in to the local hospital here. They'll fix it in a couple hours at the most, and I'll be home." He smiled weakly, clearly terrified.

"Oh. No big, we like Sam, don't we?" Lily asked Pete idly.

"Sure, we can keep an eye on him."

Lily looked at Dean. "It's tomorrow? You know what time? Maybe if school's out, or during lunch, depending, I could come by say hi or something."

"It should…I should be done right before lunch starts. Dad has enough time off work to take me home," Dean added.

"Well I'll come by. Make sure you're okay, then I can go wait for Sam. And Pete and I will make sure he gets home to drive you crazy all in one piece." Dean chuckled, face slightly pale.

"We should have a huge dinner," Pete said. Considering he knew Dean liked food.

"Speaking of food, Dean you know you can't eat tomorrow, and second of all, thanks for the breakfast. It was good. How'd you know your mother used to add almond?"

"It tasted wrong. So I just went through all the stuff I could find that might go in pancakes until I found what smelled familiar. I thought it was just vanilla at first, but there was something missing." John shook his head with a slight smile. Dean turned slightly defensive, and John held up a hand.

"Just wasn't expecting it this morning. Sam really liked it," it had honestly brought tears to his eyes, and he'd half expected his wife to walk in smiling and chiding him for being an idiot. But the moment had passed, and he'd eaten his breakfast, telling Sam not to use so much syrup, he didn't need it anyway. Kid had a sweet tooth like no other.

"You're welcome," he muttered, face red. Pete elbowed him lightly, and Lily bumped his shoulder as she stood up. They were good kids. Real good kids.

After that first day when he'd gotten a call at work, he'd figured they'd had to move on again, but it looked like things were going to be okay. Dean had settled down. Sam always did fine, and even when he couldn't make friends, he concentrated so hard on his school work it didn't matter. Dean didn't do that, for whatever reason, he wouldn't let himself.

John could remember a conversation where his son had claimed they were all freaks, and the sooner people realized it, the better. Didn't seem to realize how badly it had cut his father to hear that. They weren't freaks. But he hadn't realized he was destroying his family, not like that.

"Why don't you kids stay here for dinner?"

"Dad, you can't cook," Dean pointed out. "I remember you trying to make meatloaf, that ended horribly. It came to life and walked away," Dean grinned, barely avoiding the pillow his father threw at him from across the room. They'd all ended up watching television, whatever Sam wanted, and Sam had curled up between Dean and Lily on the couch, Pete was next to Dean, and John was in the chair adjacent to the couch.

"No, but you cook just fine. Lily you could invite your mother on up here. I'm sure it gets boring cooking all the time," John offered.

"Yeah, Dad's right, I cook great," he grinned.

"So why don't you ever bring a lunch?"

"Too lazy," Pete said, looking at Dean who nodded sagely. Lily laughed.

"He makes a lunch for Sam, makes sure I have something to eat, makes breakfast, and can't be bothered with himself. He at least ate some of the pancakes he made this morning, right?" Dean flushed a dark red.

Lily nodded, "he did. He eats lunch, too. We all potluck it, basically."

"Still in the room, here," Dean said.

Lily ruffled his hair. "We know, but you're such a good pet we can just forget about you at times," she told him, patting his head once, twice, then three times.

Sam giggled at Dean's expression, reaching out to do the same before Dean caught his wrist, not hurting him but twisting his arm behind his back.

"I'm scared of her, but not you," he told Sam, before letting him go. Sam chuckled, snuggling up against Dean's chest.

The prospect of surgery scared Sam more than Dean. He had never heard their father tell him to take care of his brother before. It was always "Dean, you take care of Sam for me." Never ever "Sam, I'm going to need you to take care of Dean while I'm not around, okay? Can you do that?"

"Darn right you're scared of me."

"Lily, Dean spends a lot of time with you'n your mom, right?"

"And Pete and Sam."

"Well, I just have a favor to ask is all," John mumbled uncomfortably. "I'm going to be working it's not like I can't take a lot of time off…"

"My mom can take care of Dean'n Sam. It's fine. I babysit him all through the school day anyway," she flipped her hair over her shoulder, laughing at Dean's abused expression. She lightly gripped his hand. "My mom thinks he's great, she won't mind, I'm guessing you don't want Sam to be alone?" Dean, she figured, would be a zombie for a few days on the post-surgery medication. Especially if he was asking them to pick Sam up for him. He never let anyone else even come close to taking care of Sam. "What time you want my mom here for dinner?"

"Dean?"

"I can have dinner ready by five," he shrugged. "I sound like some housewife."

"You're not pretty enough to be a housewife," Pete said helpfully, "Right Sam?" Sam just laughed. It was good that Dean's friends were nice to Sam, considering Dean had started out with some friends he had quickly ditched when they treated Sam like a stupid and annoying little kid.

Dean protected Sam with every fiber of his being, and wouldn't tolerate anyone giving Sam a hard time. Something John was incredibly proud of Dean for. At nine Dean had pointed out that Sam was the most important person in his life, and if he had friends who couldn't see that, then they weren't really friends of his, then were they? Not something John expected but Dean had been an adult for years now. Seeing him kick back and relax around his peers was such a balm to John's world-weary heart.

Dean had dinner ready when he said he would, Pete couldn't stay and claimed he needed to get some chores done before his parents returned and decided to 'can his ass.'

Lily's mother was tall with thick strawberry blonde hair and light blue eyes. John had been expecting a woman who shared dark hair and eyes with her daughter. Not to mention he hadn't been expecting Lily's mother to have porcelain white skin. She laughed at his expression, introducing herself as Emily Brown, and telling him without any preamble that her husband had been the Native American, and only half at that, his mother having been Navajo. John flushed, looking at Dean who was laughing.

"You got off easy, the first thing she told me was that she was 'hip and all that jazz' which is so the un-hippest thing I have _ever _heard, because no one says 'hip' anymore," he laughed. John looked at him, then saw Emily laughing, teasing Dean right back about how he wouldn't know 'hip' if it bit him on the nose.

He knew Dean had learned his more colorful vocabulary from other hunters, and John figured, himself. 'Bitch' was definitely something the boy had learned from his father. Most people didn't swear around Sam with his large eyes and curious expression, not to mention the mop of hair. In fact a lot of hunters started out 'son of a ….GUN' or a lot of times 'what a b—jerk!' Sam's favorite 'bad word' had become 'jerk.'

"So who cooked this, because from what Dean tells me, it wasn't you," she laughed.

Dean flushed, guilt flashing across his face, looking up in shock when John started laughing, "No, it wasn't me. I burn soup."

"Actually, you light it on fire," Sam clarified helpfully, and Dean choked on his water. Lily thumped him on the back, unable to help the laughter that bubbled up in her throat and escaped her lips. Mrs. Brown covered her mouth with a napkin to hide her smile.

"Dean made this. From scratch. I think the idea of following a recipe scares him," John laughed. "He has a real problem with instructions and authority figures, don't you?" he joked.

"I heard about your first day," Mrs. Brown told Dean, watching him squirm in his chair. "But it seems to me like you have two fine sons. Then again, according to my daughter my judgment is failing me in my old age."

"You're not old," Dean said, giving Lily a slight glare. She just laughed, shaking her head at him.

"My mom and I are best friends, it's cool," she told him. He always seemed shocked at how casual Lily was with her mother. She had assumed John was like a military despot the way Dean behaved. Instead, John Winchester seemed casual and relaxed, and his sons clearly loved him. They were plenty respectful, though, clearly the sons while he was the father.

"I have a favor to ask," John cleared his throat.

"Shoot," Emily said calmly, gaze level.

"I…I work, a lot, and sometimes I get home late. And Dean…I'm guessing Lily would have told you he's…" John hated asking for favors, as he ran a hand through his thick unruly hair, he sighed.

"Just send Dean over to my place, Lily and I can watch out for him and Sam. Make sure he eats. And I can work from home just as easily with him on the couch as I can with him not there, so, sure. It's no trouble at all, he's a sweet kid."

Dean turned a brilliant crimson at Mrs. Brown's words, and she hid her face again, trying not to laugh at him. He really was a sweetie. Especially with Sam. She had no problems letting him chill on the couch, and it wouldn't be hard to remember when he needed whatever medication they gave him, because he'd start to wake up when it was time. She'd torn her rotator cuff, and she knew how it worked. She'd slept through the first day, up until it started to hurt, which meant it had been four to six hours, and was time for another dose.

"Thanks," John said, scrubbing at his beard.

"I can handle myself, here," Dean said, clearly not expecting his father to ask someone to take care of him.

"It's just for a day, Dean. Besides, you know Sam'll try and cook something and burn the whole complex down," he pointed out. A faint smile twisted Dean's lips.

"I guess, but…really, I'd…"

"It's fine, you can keep me company. And I'll just turn up the tunes, you said you liked AC/DC and Zeppelin, you weren't lying were you?" she asked.

"No way!"

"Actually he's a bit of a Manilow fan," John grinned.

"Am not!" Dean gaped in horror. "Am not am not!" He looked at Sam, pleadingly.

"What's Manilow?" Sam asked, fairly effectively proving Dean had no interest in the singer. Because Sam tried very hard to be like Dean, and he knew all his brother's music. "Dean, you don't like Manilow, what's Manilow?"

"Garbage, it's okay Sammy, forget it. You don't wanna know."

"Deeaaan!"

It's just crap, okay Sammy?"

"Fine, whatever," Sam muttered sullenly.

"Sorry Sam, just nervous, okay?" he mumbled in an undertone.

"Yeah, me too," Sam mumbled, moving so he was on the edge of his chair and as close to Dean as possible. Dean ruffled his hair gently.

"So what time is the surgery over?" Emily asked John.

"He's supposed to go in around nine-thirty, and it's not supposed to be long, they said an hour and a half to two hours at the most," John looked uncomfortably at Dean, remembering the hunt.

Damn thing had thrown his boy pretty far, saw him tumble out of view off a sharp drop. Pretty damn pokey rock had stopped Dean's descent about twenty maybe thirty feet down. Clinic doctor said everything was fine, but…Dean had been acting funny and favoring his belly, so John had pressed him for answers. He hadn't been feeling good and his stomach hurt. John took him to a hospital only to find out there was a little internal damage after all. In truth, he'd been livid, but for Dean's sake, he'd kept his temper in check.

The evening passed comfortably, and Lily told Dean that she'd come see him during their lunch period. He smiled a little, and Lily and her mother left.

The kitchen got cleaned up, Dean did his homework, looked over Sam's –immaculate and perfect as always, and Sam got ready for bed, and he got to read for half an hour before lights out. Dean watched television for a full hour before readying himself for bed, knowing he wouldn't be able to sleep very well. Crawling into the bed next to his brother's, Dean heaved a sigh. Reaching out across the gap between their beds, he lightly smoothed Sam's hair back from his face before rolling over and curling into a ball, waiting for sleep to come.

_reviews please? they feed the muse that died in chapter five..._


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two:**

"Dean, c'mon wake up bud, it's time to go," John gently smoothed Dean's hair.

"I don't want to, five more minutes," came the sleepy reply.

"Dude, don't make me get ice, just get up. You wanna shower do it now, do it fast, you just wanna show up like this, fine, but get up."

"Breakfast?" came the pitiful reply.

"You don't get to eat, Dean, you can't even have anything to drink, or I'd let you have some coffee." He sat down on the edge of the bed and gently gripped the back of Dean's neck, thumb working the clenched muscles. "C'mon dude, let's go."

"I'm up," Dean whispered back, slipping his arms down so his hands were at his shoulders before pushing himself up.

"Just stay in your sweats, you're gonna be done and just want to sleep more, okay? Didn't sleep too well last night, didja?"

"Wasn't very tired," Dean mumbled, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"Go brush your teeth and whatever else you do in the mornings, then let's go."

"Yes sir," Dean pushed himself out of bed, pausing as if to make the bed, then reconsidering and just padding silently into the bathroom. Coming out, he looked more awake, and John smiled as encouragingly as he could.

"It won't take long, and you won't remember any of it, anyway, they're putting you under, don't worry about it. What'd you think's going to happen, huh?"

"I just…nothing."

John sighed heavily, "Dean, it's okay. Really, it won't hurt, and it shouldn't hurt after, either. You're gonna be fine. You'll feel better, okay?"

"Then they're they going to be giving me pills?"

"Antibiotics to keep you from getting an infection, and the pain pills are mostly to keep you sleepy and prevent any swelling or inflammation, okay? You shouldn't be hurting. Or you should at least be hurting less," John pointed out. Dean was silent in the car, and John put in "Back in Black" to soothe him. It seemed to work as he saw the tension fade from the lithe body.

John spent a nervous two hours in the waiting room before he was allowed to see Dean, who they were encouraging to stand up and walk into the next room where he could sit up and stay still. A nurse had a hand under his arm and he looked dazed. John stayed out of the OR but the moment Dean was over the threshold, he had his hand under Dean's other arm, and his boy looked at him in pure gratitude. John felt his heart soften when he saw the little boy still in his teenager. Lightly running a hand over Dean's head, he helped guide him into a chair, waiting for the effects of the drugs to wear off enough that he could function, and John could take him home.

Taking the bag of prescription pills, he thanked the nurse, who asked if they would be alright alone for a few minutes, she'd come back and check on them and then they could probably leave.

"How're you doin' there, buddy?"

Dean looked at him, almost like he was working through a fog, "I'm okay, Dad," he said, leaning into John's touch on his cheek. John smiled, lightly patting Dean's cheek before withdrawing his hand.

"Remember, I'll be home as soon as I can, okay? So behave for Mrs. Brown, she's doing us a favor."

"Just wanna go back to sleep," Dean's face crumpled slightly while he thought, "just like you said this morning," he managed, face smoothing. John laughed, ruffling his hair gently. The nurse came back in, seemed to check a few things that meant nothing to John, and then offered to get a wheelchair. John said he'd rather just carry Dean, unless it would hurt him. So, he carried Dean out of there, waking him up for a few seconds to get him into the passenger seat and letting him lie down, head on John's thigh.

Keeping his hand on Dean's head unless he needed both hands on the wheel, the drive was uneventful, other than there was a particularly decrepit looking house on the way. Making a face, John knew full well that he had put his boys into dumps like that and left them alone. If someone painted it and refurbished the porch, and put a new roof on maybe it would look like someone actually lived there. Other than the piece of shit El Camino in the front with the brown flaking paint. He'd seen that car in the lot at Sam's school, he hoped that wasn't a teacher's house. Seriously needed to up their pay, if that was the case.

With a shake of his head he was glad when the light turned. Back at the apartment building, he lifted Dean out of the car, laughing silently at his boy's muffled protests at being moved. Knocking lightly on Emily's door, she smiled at him easily, opening the door silently to let him in.

"Grabbed some blankets," she said, leading John to the couch where he deposited Dean, who, again started to fuss a little, waking up, green eyes wide in confusion. He looked around, taking stock of his surroundings before relaxing into the couch, pushing his face into the pillow. Unable to help himself, John grinned at his son's antics.

"If I can make this up to you, in any way…"

"John, it's no trouble. He's a good kid, and I'd rather he wasn't alone if he did need anything," she smiled. "I figure, if it were Lily, I'd want the same for her. Go back to work, before they sack you," she lightly pushed his shoulder, blue eyes dancing. Nodding, he left as quietly as possible. Emily laughed as Dean burrowed into the blankets, shuddering once and falling so deeply into sleep it seemed like he'd stopped breathing.

Lily got home at the end of the day, having found out she wasn't allowed to leave campus, and was just lucky not to have detention for having tried. She walked quietly over to the couch, smiling a little at her friend's rumpled appearance. One arm was slung off the edge of the couch, the other curled lightly over his stomach.

"Hey Sweetie," she turned to greet her mother.

"Hi Mom," she then twisted to look at Dean, "he okay?"

"Fine, woke up twice, but didn't want anything, he's doing just fine." It was weird to see him that still. Lily had never realized how careworn he looked until she saw him at peace like that. She slipped his homework out of her backpack, lightly placing it on the small coffee table next to the couch. Not that she thought he'd really want it. There was a reason they all usually did their homework together –it was never any fun alone. Pulling her own homework free, she looked at it, and flung it across the room, cringing when it made a lot of noise, but Dean didn't so much as twitch. Breathing out slow, she pulled a book from her bag and started reading. _Dragonsdawn_ by Anne McCaffrey.

When Dean woke up he scared the hell out of her, and all he did was sit up.

"Oh my god!" she said, picking up her book and turning around to glare at him, considering her back had been against the couch, keeping guard, her mother teased. Looking at her, it took a few seconds for his eyes to really focus on her and then he seemed fine. "You need something?" she asked, he looked a little dazed. Shaking his head, he stopped, then nodded. Putting a hand over her mouth, she fought a smile.

"Water," he croaked, and she nodded.

"I'll be right back," she told him, gripping his arm reassuringly before she disappeared. Filling a glass with water, she returned, he looked like he was about to fall asleep on her again.

"Here," she offered. His eyes focused, his body becoming more alert as he carefully reached out, took the water, and drained it before handing it back.

"Thanks," he mumbled, voice stronger. "How long I been out?"

"I'm going to go get Sam right now, so not too long," she told him. "Just go back to sleep. He'll wake you up when he gets here, whether he wants to or not," she smiled. Nodding in weary agreement he laid back down and was promptly asleep.

Sam bounded in the door, "Is he okay?" Sam asked loudly, Dean groaned and shifted on the couch, sitting up and glaring at his brother.

"Ask him yourself," Mrs. Brown laughed, picking up the glass from the coffee table and refilling it before passing it to Dean. He blinked, and took his time drinking it.

"Dean, how're you feeling?" Sam asked, letting his backpack slide off his shoulders and hit the ground with a soft thud. He got into Dean's face, eyes huge with concern. Dean put out one hand, fingers splayed, and pushed Sam back by the forehead.

"I'm fine, Sammy, just tired. It's just the stuff they gave me, okay? I'm fine."

"You need to take these now," Mrs. Brown told him softly, handing him three different pills. Blinking, he looked at them, before taking them from her palm and putting them in his mouth, using a sip of water to wash them down. "Sam, let him sleep, okay? He'll be fine tomorrow, and you can drive him crazy, then? Okay?" Sam nodded.

"I'll do homework," he told her, settling with his back against the couch and pulling it out. Lily sighed, fetched her papers, and watched Dean as he fought to stay awake, and lost, eyes drooping shut. Lightly smoothing his cheek, she settled next to Sam.

"Me too, I guess," she told him, starting on math.

A few hours later John knocked quietly on the door, Lily opened it, and smiled at his anxious expression.

"Dean's fine, Sam's been an angel," she told him. A relieved and slightly ashamed grin broke out over John's face, and she was shocked at how much he looked like Dean. Quickly closing her mouth, she let him in, telling Sam quietly to pack up and get ready to go downstairs to his own apartment. "My mom's working, so I'm not going to bug her, if that's okay."

"Tell her I'm grateful," John said.

"She knows," she replied, lightly touching Dean's shoulder. "He made me promise," when she saw John's consternation. "Hey, your dad's here. And don't tell me I don't keep my promises," she told him, lightly holding his hand until he looked aware. Letting him go, she watched as he pushed himself up with a soft grunt, green eyes locking on his father's brown ones. Instantly at his side, John helped Dean onto his feet, looking at the homework and pills on top. Picking the pills up and rolling the homework around them, he handed it to Sam.

"Put this in your bag for me, and when we get into the apartment, put it on your brother's bed, okay? Then bring the pills to the couch."

"Yes sir," Sam said brightly, watching as Dean stretched himself out, standing up to his full height with a slight smile.

"Doesn't hurt, Dad, it doesn't hurt."

John laughed, and slipped his arm around Dean's shoulders.

"You realize that when those pain killers wear off you're going to be bitching at me about how bad it does hurt, right?" Although they knew it was a lie, Dean never told John when he was hurting. It was worse than pulling teeth to find out why his son wasn't behaving normally.

"Yeah," his voice was a little breathy, John noticed, but wasn't too concerned. He'd be alert once he'd slept long enough that the drugs weren't in his system.

"Wasn't so bad, though, was it? And you were scared," John teased gently, helping him down the stairs. Dean had a death grip on his shirt on the side, and his father knew it would be stretched out. Stumbling once, Dean tugged his body closer to John's instinctively, and seemed fairly startled by the slight trip. "Easy there, easy, I gotcha." Reminding himself that they could afford to live there because there wasn't an elevator, John helped Dean down the last few steps, Sam having been sent ahead to open the door and put his things down. Maybe put a frozen pizza in the oven. Considering Dean wouldn't be available to cook.

Settling Dean on the couch, where he was easily accessible and if he moved around or needed anything John would hear him, went without a hitch. While he was more alert because of the exercise it didn't take long before he was content to go back to sleep, face pressed against the back of the couch.

The weekend passed slowly, Dean did the homework he'd missed Friday, along with the in-class-work. John went in and made up a few hours of work on the weekend, figuring that Dean was fine, and if Sam needed anything it would be okay. Saturday was the day that Dean was laziest, and the Sunday he woke up around his 'usual' weekend hour, showered, dressed, and made breakfast for him and Sam. John being already gone. Probably checking around to see if there was a hunt, but there had been an incredible lull as of late in the paranormal activity.

Which told Dean that it was going to bust out again with a vengeance, and soon. And then they would have to leave. Feeling his throat tighten, he let Sam curl closer to him, and settled himself better on the armrest to accommodate his sibling. They were watching whatever cartoon Sam wanted, Dean didn't care anymore. Sam was his world, anyway, well Sam and John.

Monday came as a bit of a shock for Dean, because he knew he wouldn't be going to school, and also knew that he would not be picking Sam up, or leaving the apartment. In fact, he was supposed to go to Lily's and stay with her mother, but he didn't want to. Instead, he moved around the apartment and picked it up.

Dean didn't clean _anything_, but he could still put things away. He could unearth candy wrappers Sam thought he had hidden, but hadn't, and throw them into the trash, Touch the picture of his mother and father together, and swallow back the lump in his throat. It kept him from going insane from the singular aloneness of it all.

For a short while, he considered going down a floor to where there would at least be another living breathing being. Not for the first time, Dean wished he had a dog. Bobby had a dog, and so far no harm had come to him, in fact Rumsfeld was a strong useful animal. A protector. John said that apartments didn't allow pets, and that they couldn't afford food, or the other essentials, and he had no time to train it, and neither did his boys. Dean said 'yes sir' because he always did, what else was there to say?

When it came time for Sam's school to end, Dean was pacing the small room, wondering if Sam would be okay, and if anything would happen to him. It took all his self control and a little more besides to keep himself from going to pick Sam up himself, because he knew that Lily and Pete had said they would do it, and bring Sam home, safe and sound. Wondering if they would take Sam to the Browns' apartment, or the Winchesters' he debated again descending the stairs. But he wasn't weak, didn't need the company, and didn't want to show up late when he was supposed to have been there the whole time. His father would kill him, he knew. Would claim to have worried about him. For whatever reason, Dean could not fathom. All Dean wanted to prove was that he could take care of himself. Who else was there to do it, anyway? Mary was dead and gone. He took care of Sam, and he took care of John, he hadn't needed anyone taking care of him for years. At least, that was what he always told himself, because what else was there for him to believe?

Dean sighed heavily, counting the minutes, and then the seconds before he heard Sam's light chatter and moved to the door, wrenching it open and starting down the hallway, unable to admit to how lonely he'd been. It had been like when he'd had trouble in school and been completely isolated, and he hated it. Starting down the stairs, the stitches tugged into his flesh, but held, and he slowed down.

"Sam!"

"Dean?"

"Up here, Sammy." Hearing his brother's inarticulate cry, he also heard the heavy thumps as Sam pounded gracelessly up the stairs, almost bowling Dean over. Laughing heartily, Dean caught him, wrapping his arms around Sam in a hug.

"You're not supposed to be here," Sam pointed out, frowning. "You were supposed to be with Mrs. Brown, Dad's not going to be happy," he added, but his hazel eyes glowed with delight. Dean was up and moving around. It meant that Dean was better, and that everything else would be better, too.

"Dean!"

"Yeah?" he called, hearing the reproach in Lily's voice and wondering how fast he could get up the stairs and have the door locked. He had that sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach as he realized that he would fail miserably. She was already in his line of sight, and she looked concerned. Her worry flooded guilt through him, swallowing him alive and for a moment he thought he was drowning. Recovering with a hand on the rail, his other on Sam's shoulder, he forced a smile.

"What're you doing up? You're supposed to be healing, you idiot! And on top of that, you weren't supposed to be alone all day!" He started down the stairs.

"I just needed to clean up the apartment, Dad doesn't have time, and Sam was at school, so I figured since I had the time, I'd use it. Besides, it's not like your mom was worried, she didn't come after me."

"She probably figured you wanted to be alone, and was going to let you, because she's like that," Lily hissed, brown eyes blazing. Sam moved subtly between them. Deflating, Lily sighed. "You might as well come now, then. It's where your dad thinks you're going to be."

Dean caved with a slight nod, fingers still pressed into Sam's shoulder. The ten year old didn't complain, just reached up to grip Dean's wrist gently to help keep him steady. Following Lily down the stairs, at the bottom she turned around and flung her arms around him.

"God you're such an idiot!" she snapped. "You're going to do something stupid and get yourself killed, or, or you're going to find someone bigger and stronger than you and, I know you, you'll pick a fight and he'll kill you, just because you can't be bothered to take care of yourself!" Dean startled at the hug, generally not a part of his life, hugging. Cautiously hugging her back, Sam looked concerned.

"Dean takes care of us, and himself," Sam protested stoutly, unsure of how to react. Lily pulled away with a slight laugh.

"I was just, I was worried about you, okay? Try and be careful?"

"Yeah, I'll be back at school tomorrow, y'know," Dean told her with a shrug, not understanding why she was still worried about him. They were friends, he knew that. "Where's Pete?" he asked, hoping for a third party to diffuse the situation.

"Dean, you're up!" Pete laughed, moving smoothly to his friend's side as Dean lightly punched his shoulder in greeting.

"Why you sounding so surprised, huh? Of course I'm up," Dean laughed, pleased that at least someone didn't expect him to be an invalid for the rest of his life. "Dude, how long you think a few stitches were gonna keep me down, huh?"

"Long enough for me to come jack all your stuff, man, you know how it works." Dean frowned.

"Again? Dude that's not cool at all. I'm gonna have to kick some," he glanced at Sam, "butt when we get back to school," Dean said. "He's got it out for you and your crew," and he'd be damned if he didn't say something about it.

"It's cool, we lived with it before you, and we'll live with it after, the way I figure it," Pete shrugged. "At least he hasn't started a purge or something, expelling us all or searching our lockers."

"It's because he knows he won't find anything!" Lily said heatedly.

"The four of you going to stay out there all day?" Mrs. Brown asked. "Get inside before you drive all the neighbors crazy."

They trooped in easily and quietly, Dean choosing to sit on the floor leaned up against the couch, while Lily chose to sit on it, next to Sam, leaving Pete to sit down next to Dean.

"Got your homework," Pete grinned.

"I hate you," Dean said by way of thanks.

"I know, I love you, too," he handed Dean a sheaf of papers. "You coming tomorrow?"

"If my dad'll let me. He's taking this whole surgery thing way too seriously," Dean muttered, given all the times he'd been hurt, this was just ridiculous. Although, he was acting like a normal dad, with a normal life, and normal kids. How long would it last, Dean was forced to wonder? How long would he have friends, and at least the semblance of a home? Knowing John, not much longer. "I'll at least be picking Sam up myself tomorrow."

"Not by yourself, we're coming, too. Because knowing you, you'll pass out on the way there in the middle of a street and get run over," Lily told him sarcastically, ruffling his hair to annoy him.

"I'm not a possum," he pointed out, irritably.

"No, you're right," she told him, watching him start to look appeased, "They don't talk." Pete laughed, Sam grinned a little, but was too engrossed in his homework to really listen. Dean sulked.

"You're a very cute possum," she told him with a laugh, ruffling his hair again, until he caught her hand and tugged her physically off the couch.

"Enough!" Mrs. Brown told them, for all they were laughing, she knew it would escalate, with kids, it always did. Frowning a little when she saw Dean's guilt-ridden anxious look she smiled at him, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. "You kids want some cookies? There's a whole bunch leftover from a meeting I had to go to," she might have worked from home, for the most part, but she still worked for a company, and was required to attend said meetings. "I figured I'd bring them back."

Dean glowered at her slightly, considering he hadn't been allowed to eat anything he wanted to, because of the surgery on his insides. "You can have them, too, Dean," she laughed, and he turned red, looking down at the ground suddenly. He sure tried to be badass, but he was just a sweet kid under it all. Maybe one that was a little too adult, had seen a little too much, but all the same. He was just a kid.

"Can I have two?" Sam asked, and she laughed again, seeing Dean's horrified expression.

"I was thinking three each, they're small," she told Sam, and Dean looked slightly mollified, but when she turned her back she heard his angry whisper as he chastised his sibling.

When John knocked lightly on the door, Dean had the decency to look absolutely ashamed of himself.

"Hey Dean," John said with a slight frown.

"Hey Dad," he whispered.

"Dad!" Sam sprung up from the couch, moving around it to hug his father. He was still young enough that he could get away with it, but only just.

"How'd you do all day?" John asked Dean, hauling Sam up into his arms, for all Sam really was too big for that. Much too big, and damn, he was heavy, too.

"I did good," he said, casting a sideways glance at Lily who said nothing at all, looking at her homework intently, before picking up the long emptied cookie plate and carrying it into the kitchen.

"John, good to see you, work go alright?" Emily asked with a casual smile.

"Yeah, it was good." He shuffled uncomfortably while Dean stood up, gathering his and Sam's things. "Listen, I just wanted to thank you again for this…"

"Dean's no trouble at all, and neither's Sam. You raised two very well behaved boys, it's no trouble. You don't need to be constantly thanking me," she told him with a grin.

"Southern manners," John shrugged in defense, thinking for the first time that Emily Brown was actually very beautiful. Catching his son's glance at him, John shrugged slightly. Nothing would happen, Dean knew that just as well as John did. "C'mon boys, let's head upstairs," he said.

Out in the hallway, he looked at Dean. "So what aren't you telling me, that no one's going to rat you out, huh?" he asked seriously.

Dean shifted uncomfortably until John had him by the jaw, lifting his chin up so their eyes met.

"Daaad," Sam complained, tugging on his other hand. "I wanna finish my homework, and you've got the keys," he tugged again.

"We're not finished," John told Dean, before allowing Sam to drag him away. Dean nodded unhappily but kept his mouth shut.

"Who cleaned the apartment?" John asked, looking around inside, noting the neatness of it, and the fact that the thick dust over the majority of the surfaces had been marred by the movement of the objects on top. Noting his eldest's blush that spread up from his cheeks to turn his entire face crimson, John sighed a little. "You stayed here, alone, instead of doing what I told you." Not even an accusation, just simple fact.

"I'm sorry," Dean mumbled, not repentant at all.

"It's fine," John sighed, not having the energy or time to deal with any of it. He was fairly sure there was a hunt over in the next state, from the sounds of things, probably a wendigo. Which was not the most dangerous thing he'd faced, but it was up there, and he wasn't sure if he should leave or take his boys when he went on the hunt. It'd been nice, playing at being normal for a while, but now he wasn't so sure he could.

"Dad, I…uh, I've got homework," he scuffed quietly at the tiled floor of the kitchen, eyes down on his battered tennis shoes.

"We outta get you some boots some time," John remarked quietly, noting the level of destruction the months had wreaked on Dean's shoes. "They'll last longer, y'know?"

"Yeah," he brought one foot up lightly tugging at the failing sole of his chucks, before shrugging a little, foot dropping back to the ground.

"Go'n, do your homework," he pulled a beer from the fridge, grateful that Dean had found time to restock them, and then idly twisted the bottle in his hand, wondering if his boy had been drinking the beer, restocking to hide it? No. Dean didn't even like beer, John had let him try it once, it had not been at all what Dean had expected. Although, as far as John Winchester was concerned, hopefully the lesson would last long, and Dean would never turn to alcohol for sustenance and comfort. Smiling grimly at the irony of his thoughts, he took a long pull of the beer.

Dean finished his homework, closing the textbook with a sigh before rubbing at his eyes wearily. Looking at the clock he froze, looking into the kitchen for signs of his father. Knowing he'd stayed up way later than he was supposed to, or even allowed to he quietly stood up. Padding as softly as he could into his bedroom, pausing only to pull his shoes off and then slipped into bed, he squeezed his eyes tightly shut and hoping he hadn't been heard.

John's footsteps slowly thudded closer, and Dean knew he was screwed. "Hey, how're you feeling?" he asked, and Dean turned to stare incredulously at him. "Dude, don't worry about it, not like you've got school tomorrow, right?" Dean slowly tugged his jeans off, picking up flannel pajama bottoms and pulling them on.

"I thought you said I could go tomorrow," he protested weakly.

"And I also said you were supposed to stay with Mrs. Brown today," John reminded him gently.

"I'm sorry, I just, I was feeling better, and things were a mess, and you're always yelling at me to clean it up…." John held up a hand.

"It's fine, just make sure you pick Sam up from school tomorrow, okay?"

Dean smiled, nodding his head. "Yes sir, you know I will," the relief almost palpable.

"But Dean?"

"Yes sir?"

"Don't disobey me again."


	4. Chapter 3

_A/N I apologise for taking so long. Thanks to all the people who helped beta this. And you should all thank Mattie because if not for her, I would let this die...cuz ain't no one but her reading it.. _

**Chapter Three: **

Dean waited quietly outside Sam's classroom, having skirted around the janitor mopping down the floors. Lily and Pete were with him, and the three of them had gotten bored with cards and other games, and Lily had yelled at them when they decided to play quarters on the floor. Like it would kill him to have bloodied knuckles…seriously if she'd seen the things he had, done the things he'd done, quarters would be nothing.

"Hey guys, I'll be right back, gotta use the bathroom, okay?"

"Well it's not like we're going anywhere without you," Pete pointed out, rolling his eyes. Dean shrugged a little, before moving past the 'Caution Wet Floor Sign' to the other end of the hallway. Wondering why he'd thought it was a good idea to drink so much water, he entered the bathroom, seeing the janitor.

"Oh, sorry, I'll find another one," he said, turning, feeling pressure on the back of his head, before the floor came rushing up and his world went black.

"Where the hell is Dean? Did he get lost in there?" Lily tapped a foot, watching Sam, who looked ready to go home.

"Dunno, he went in, janitor came out, maybe he was just waiting on the guy to leave?"

"I wouldn't know, would I? I wasn't in there."

"I'll go check," Sam said with a shrug, not wanting to hear them arguing. He figured that maybe Dean had felt sick from the surgery, and didn't want anyone to know, so he was hiding. He'd done it before, once, when he'd been sick, because the bathroom had a locking door. There was no one in the bathroom when he opened the door. Coming back out, "Are you sure it was this one?" he asked.

"There's no other bathroom in this hall, and he didn't leave it."

"'Scuze me," the janitor smiled, friendly enough, as he retrieved his 'wet floor' sign and put it on the small cart holding his cleaning supplies and trashcan.

"Excuse me," Pete said, looking uncomfortable, "Our friend went in there, and he, we missed him coming back out, did you see him?"

"Yeah, he went right back out, said he'd find another bathroom, I told him there was one right in the next hall over. Polite kid, not like most of the ones that go here," he said amicably.

"Well thanks for your time," Lily said, and they sped off to go find Dean.

After half an hour of fruitless search, Sam looked at them.

"Maybe he went home."

"No, Sam, he wanted to pick you up, walk you home."

"Then we should call my dad."

"Why? We'll keep looking, I can go back to the apartment see if he really did head there," Pete offered.

"Sam and I will look here, and if we can't find him, we'll call my mom with the school phone, so you check with her, okay?"

"Sure, no problem."

"Sam, you gonna be okay?"

"Yeah, I just…where'd Dean go?" he looked around, slipping his hand into Lily's. Sam hadn't held hands with anyone in years, rejecting his brother's callused palm for his blue jean pockets instead. But, right then, he was worried. "Is he playing a trick on us because he wants us to know he's feeling better? I knew. Dean's always okay, he says he's always good, I don't get it," he mumbled apprehensively.

"He's fine, he's always fine," Lily didn't know what to say, she didn't have any siblings of her own, but agreeing usually worked. And it was true; Dean had been fine after the surgery, if a little sleepy and spacey.

At his bladder's protest, Dean swam to the surface of his dreams and broke free into consciousness. Thinking it was much too early to be awake he groaned inwardly. When he tried to move his arms to push himself out of bed he abruptly realized two things. One, he was not in bed, and two, his hands and legs were bound together, behind him, and he was on a cold cement floor to boot. Groaning when the headache set in, he closed his eyes against the fading light. Figuring that when he had last been conscious it had not been too much past three it had to be the same day. He hoped it was the same day. Oh god, where was his father? What about Sam? Was Sam there, too? Trying to call out, he noticed that the cottony feeling in his mouth was from a gag, not just the headache. Trying to stretch out his body and relieve the cramping muscles, he couldn't move.

Training kicked in, and he started working his wrists, flexing to test the ropes. No give, it had been done well, then soaked in water to shrink, he could feel the dampness in his jeans at the ankles, under the rope. Wondering how long it would take for his bladder to burst, Dean shifted again, trying to ease the pressure of his jeans against his lower belly. Unable to do much because of how cleverly he had been bound, Dean shifted again. Knowing he wasn't blindfolded, he inhaled deeply through his nose and opened his eyes again, looking around. The pounding in his head worsened, but he ignored it, fearing that worse would happen if he couldn't. Eyes roving around the room, he noticed a man the chair by the corner. An old wickerwork chair, nothing fancy, not even a cushion. The man appeared to be asleep. His captor, he knew. And possibly his tormentor.

Almost wondering if it was a trick, he used his tongue to push against the gag, slowly working at it until eventually he could force it past his teeth and onto his chin, where he shrugged his face against his shoulder to force the gag even further down. Finally the pressure let up and it hung loose around his neck. Watching the man, he wondered what would happen if he woke him, and asked to use the bathroom. Then, he wondered again if he could perhaps find a way to free himself. Fingers picked at the ropes, if he couldn't loosen the knots, perhaps he could fray the rope itself until he could break it. Like Superman bursting free of chains. His mind racing, he figured if he worked his shoes off, he might be able to work the ropes over his heels and off his feet. But he knew the ropes were too tight around his ankles. Sighing softly, he glanced up again at the chair in the corner, then squinted, wondering where the man went.

Too groggy to think properly, he increased the frantic pace of his attempts to escape, picking, picking, picking at the rope, feeling strand by strand by strand pull away, and knowing there were hundreds, thousands of strands to break though.

"I see you're awake," rough hands dragged the gag back up over his mouth, jerking it tight and hard against his mouth, tugging at the corners of his lips. Dean hissed in pain, before clenching his jaw, a muscle standing out on the side. Deciding he wouldn't give his captor any satisfaction or acknowledgement of the pain he was feeling. "Well look-ee what you can do," the man said, rolling Dean onto his front with a sharp kick, before pressing his shoe down onto Dean's hands against the rope. He continued to press down until the boy thought that his fingers would be broken. Starting to squirm, when before he had been determined to remain impassive, he barely managed to roll away, now facing the man.

The janitor?

Really? What the hell?

The confusion must have been obvious on his face, because the man laughed. "You look just like your daddy when you do that, you know that?"

Dean made a muffled series of incredulous sounds supposedly equivalent to "You know my dad?"

Dillinger laughed again.

"Maybe I shouldn't have gagged you again so soon, this could be fun," he suggested. Feeling his eyebrows contract, Dean knew suddenly that he was scared.

Dean hoped that the man would act like a cartoon villain and reveal his plot, it might make things a lot simpler. Dean sent a quiet prayer to whatever god might be listening that life could be a little more like a cartoon, and preferably not like the Looney Tunes. He wasn't sure his body could take the constant abuse. After all who would take care of Sam? Or his father, if he was gone?

Working at the ropes again, he wasn't genuinely expecting the kick to his stomach, exploding pain across his abdomen and forcing his body to retch against the gag. The convulsions of his body seeking to bring up his latest meal wracked his entire frame, and all Amos did was watch.

He didn't laugh, didn't say a thing. When Dean finally stilled, trying to swallow away the taste of bile in his mouth, Amos kicked him again, and he felt his bladder give up, felt the liquid warmth spread across his jeans. It wasn't the pain, he knew that, he'd been hurt so much worse before, but it was the pressure.

Humiliation spread across his face, darkening it into a blotchy crimson. The stitches, the surgery! Panic spread over him next, as he tried to see and twist his body, no, no blood. But what about the inside? Shutting his eyes against the thoughts, he wasn't going to give Amos anymore satisfaction. Opening them, he simply glared, trying with every fiber of his being to channel a particularly angry John Winchester on a bad day. His stomach ached, wanting to rebel again, and he fought it, fought the urge to gag, because if he threw up, he knew that it would stay trapped behind the gag, and so he fought it. When he finally lay limp against the cement, Amos stared at him calmly, simply calculating, and Dean felt exposed and violated by that simple look, but he refused to turn his eyes away.

"Perhaps I should just take those eyes out for you, so you don't need to look at me like that," he suggested mildly. Dean blanched, unable to stop the reaction. The man was serious. Absolutely serious. Not willing to capitulate entirely, Dean dropped his eyes, but didn't stop glaring, instead focusing on the man's shoes. A hand interrupted his view, grabbing his shirt front and hauling him upwards, but with his feet bound, he was unable to stand. Soon another hand entered his vision, sending black spots across it, and causing the room to spin. He felt the same fist plunge into his stomach, and he was unable to fight his body from bringing up his latest meal where it fouled his mouth against the gag. Unaware that his fingers still worked to part the strands holding the rope around his wrists, another crack across his cheek brought him oblivion.

------

"What do you mean you don't know where your brother is?" John asked Sam, incredulously.

"We can't find him, Mr. Winchester," Lily mumbled, "he went to the bathroom and didn't come back out," she added. "We waited, and Sam said he wasn't in there, Pete, too." Biting her lip, she was clearly on the verge of tears. It wasn't like it was normal for her friend to just disappear: Dean was responsible and thoughtful and didn't do things to deliberately hurt the people who he cared about –and who cared about him. John's face darkened, and Lily found herself suddenly interested in her shoes, studying the old marred white and peeling plastic at the toe.

Sam had cried, in a silent tears-only kind of way. Lily hadn't had the words to comfort him, wishing that she could cry, too.

"We looked for him for hours," Lily whispered, wishing that she could just go back in time and fix things. Pete was still looking. Trying very hard to find Dean, before someone else did. He was hurt, well, he'd just had surgery. It wasn't like he should be up and walking around. "Someone…" if she admitted it, it became real.

"Someone has my boy," John said coldly, and Lily felt a frisson of fear run up her spine. "And it looks like I've got to go get him back," he added grimly. She could practically see him buckling on swords, knives, guns, maybe even a headband along with war paint. "So, tell me, who else was in the hallway with him?"

----

Coming to, he found his hands in front of him, a nail piercing his palm. Very thin, but long, it wasn't driven in yet, but both hands were laid palm up, right on top of left on the table. The nail was far enough in to stick up on its own, the hammer lying beside it. Dean vomited against the gag. He knew after forcing himself to flex his fingers that nothing was damaged other than skin and muscle. Gagging again, he forced himself to swallow, knowing he would do anything for the chance to just spit. Rubbing his cheek against his shoulder, he refused to cry.

When he looked around he noticed that Amos was gone.

Sure, his hands were bound, sure, his feet were bound, but nothing was stopping him from at least trying to escape. Other than the threat of the nail: Dillinger wouldn't drive it all the way into his hands unless he tried something, and he knew that the fear would keep Dean from doing anything. Stopped by a simple gesture, Dean felt his stomach curdle. Pulling his hands to his stomach, the pain throbbed up his arm. He had no physical way of getting the nail out, and that was all he wanted to do. Forcing back the tears again, he would deprive Amos of that satisfaction, if nothing else. If he pushed at the nail, it would dig up the inside of his hand, and the very idea was enough to make him sick again.

When footsteps came down the old wooden stairs, Dean felt his heart leap with hope. His dad was coming, his dad would come and everything would be okay. He would be rescued.

"You look uncomfortable," Amos smiled. "Hands on the table." Dean put them up as quickly as possible rather than risk the nail being actually driven through. Amos reached out to lightly touch the nail. Twirling it idly, "You look a lot like your father, you know that?" Unable to respond, Dean just stared at his hand, before his body gagged again. He'd woken up hungry, but now the very thought of food was enough to make him want to die. Amos began pushing indolently down on the nail, Dean bit back a cry of pain, clenching his teeth around the gag suddenly glad it was in his mouth. Wrenching the thin nail up and away, Amos smiled. "Did it hurt?" he asked. "I'd rather do this to your father, breaking him would be so much harder. But it would take too long. And I think breaking you will break him, and I won't have to expend too much effort. It only took him a few words to ruin my life. I'll make sure it takes a few days to ruin his.

"Here, let me help you with that," Amos tugged the gag down roughly, tearing Dean's lip in the process.

Spitting blood and the taste of vomit from his mouth, Dean looked up. His lips were swollen and stiff, and he had a hard time keeping them together, and it galled him to think that if he didn't, bloody drool would slip down over his chin. "What'd my dad ever do to you?" Dean asked. "He's a hero, he saves people."

A hand cracked across his face, and Dean fought the blackness away. "Son of a bitch," he mumbled, before something hit him hard in the belly. Coughing, Dean felt tears leaking down his cheeks, and did his best to stop them, and hide them, turning his face into his shoulders to wipe them.

"John used to say that a lot. It was his favorite. Didn't have much use for swearing beyond that one phrase," a simple smile twisted Amos' lips. "And your father just thinks he's a hero, Dean, it is Dean, right? Don't be stupid. He ruined my marriage, my life, my career, he ruined everything."

"Dad doesn't know anyone, he can't have-" another blow cut his words short.

"In the military. Doesn't tell you everything, does he?" chuckling a little, the worst part was that he seemed so perfectly sane, calm, almost reasonable. "There was a girl he flirted with a lot, one he knew I had my sights on. No woman had eyes for anyone else when your dad was around, y'know that kid? He was real popular with the ladies," settling down in the table across from Dean, he smiled. "You might have some half brothers and sisters running around.

"That aside, I set aside some time for this girl, and I spent some time with her. He came in and ruined the moment forever, ratted me out. I got a dishonorable discharge from the military, my wife left me. Found out she was pregnant, seven months, it was my baby. My child and I've never met it, don't even know if it's a boy or girl, thanks to your father."

Dean figured that cheating on your wife was a pretty bad thing to do, regardless. His eyes rounded. "You raped her."

"No, I didn't rape her. I gave her what she wanted. What she was asking for from your father. And I gave it to her. In the end it was a little too much for her, I guess."

"You raped her and you killed her," Dean whispered. "And my father caught you at it. You raped her and you killed her. While you were married and your wife was pregnant. You sick son of a bitch." This time the blow was so hard Dean was thrown from the chair and into the cold cement, where it cracked against his skull sharply.

"I don't have time for this," Amos sighed, rummaging around in a small red metal toolbox. Selecting a syringe and small clear vial, he prepped it and injected the contents of the vial into Dean's arm. "That should keep you quiet for a while," he smiled. Patting the boy's cheek, he left the room.

-----

"Where's my son?" John asked the principle calmly. It was an elementary school, so there were no cameras watching the hallways, but John Winchester didn't care about logic, he didn't give a damn about anything other than recovering his boy. "Fine, who was there yesterday in hallway three?" he asked.

"The teachers, who were all in their classrooms with their students."

"Funny, my son here, he says the janitor was in the hall, too."

"We employ several janitors here, they work in two or three day shifts, none of them are missing yet."

"Who was in the hallway with my son?"

"The only janitor on duty that day was Dillinger. And he shouldn't have been in that hallway, he'd already done it in the morning," the principle shrugged.

"I want his name and address," John snarled, then frowned. "Dillinger?" He knew a Dillinger. Coincidence. But, in the Winchester world, nothing was coincidence. "Not Amos Dillinger?"

"Yeah, real good guy, the kids love him. They're usually on their neatest behavior in the lunch room when he's working so he'll have less to clean up. Sometimes I wish he was a teacher so that they'd behave all the time," the principle smiled. "I'm sure he didn't do a thing to your son, if anything, you said he'd had surgery? Maybe Amos took him to the hospital because he was sick."

"Then he would have come out with Dean, and the kids would have seen him, and it wouldn't be a mystery as to where my son is. Now, his address."

"I can't give that to you."

John breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth several times before he could speak again. "I will get the police here, I will get you fired and your damned school closed if you do not give me that address right this damned second."

"Here," the man said wearily, passing a file to John. He skimmed it quickly, before biting hard on the inside of his cheek. Coppery blood filled his mouth but the pain was nothing in comparison to his fear. Amos had raped a woman so violently he'd killed her. If he could do that without a second thought, what would he do to Dean? John knew he was capable of anything.

Out of the room within seconds, he was in the Impala, speeding down the streets so fast the cops hardly noticed him go by. Arriving at the listed address for an apartment not too far from where he lived with his boys, John didn't bother to knock, he simply picked the lock, feeling that there was no sense in warning Amos and galvanizing him into killing Dean ahead of schedule. If he hadn't killed the boy already.

Refusing to allow thoughts like that into his head, John moved into the small room. Dusty. No food in the cupboards, no beers in the fridge. No clothes in any drawers or closets. John searched frantically for hidden doors, compartments, anything. Signs that his son might be trapped inside. Nothing, no one had been here in months at the very least. John would wager Amos Dillinger hadn't stepped inside this apartment since he'd been on the walk through with the landlord. "Sonuvabitch," he swore. This was day two, he'd been unable to get to the principle until the next day, but he'd spent the entire night searching. Walking in circles, questioning Sam.

He figured that Dillinger had stuffed Dean into the trashcan to get him out of the bathroom without anyone seeing. He knew the kids so they hadn't suspected him, and why should they? They were just kids. Still no Dean. And another damned dead end. Deciding to call Jim, who might have some ideas at the least, John rubbed at his forehead. "Hold on kiddo, I'm coming for you," he whispered to the still air.

----

Dean woke up to pain. Pain in his belly, hands, feet, face and back. Pulling his head up from the ground, he felt dizzy, and then choked. No longer gagged, his cheek pulled away from the cement with a soft sound like a sticker being pulled from plastic. Blood flaked and peeled away from his flesh, and he groaned. Feeling light headed the room continued to spin, an aftereffect of the drugs he didn't even know were in his system. He didn't know his body had puked yet again in an attempt to rid itself of the poison running rampant through his system. His hair was matted with it in stiff clumps.

Unsuccessful in his attempts to take stock of his surroundings, he passed out again. The lack of food and drink combined with whatever cocktail Amos had come up with kept him out for several more hours.

When he next awoke, he knew several hours had passed. It was day two, he knew that much. Day two. He had to believe that if nothing else, he hadn't passed out too often, or for too long, because then god only knew what Amos had done to his body. Mouth too swollen to close, bloody drool ran over his chin, and he couldn't even feel it. Eyes rolling in his head when Dillinger came into the room again, Dean tried to roll onto his back. A sharp kick to his groin made him cry out, fighting back waves of nausea and pain. Rolling onto his side, he felt his ribs grate, and groaned.

"My dad's gonna kill you," he whispered thickly.

"What's that?"

Louder, as loud as he could, Dean thought he was shouting, but it was barely a whisper, "My dad's gonna kill you," he repeated. "You're gonna die screaming," he added. His dad would come. It'd been two days, his dad was coming. His dad would find him, save him. Because he didn't know how to save himself. All his training to fight monsters in the dark had never prepared him for the ones who walked out in the light.

"Sure, I'll die screaming. After you," Amos smiled calmly. Wrenching Dean up by his hair, he slammed the boy's head into the table. Once, twice, a third time, then he let go of what hair remained in his hand, letting it fall before brushing his hands together to get the stray hairs off. Dean's face slapped into the edge of the table before his body rolled boneless to the ground. Blood from Dean's scalp began to pool slowly on the ground. Figuring it was about time he let his captive have something to drink, Amos left the room to return with a bucket of water, he poured it over the boy's bloodied and swollen face, waking him up as it dripped into his nostrils and down his throat, coughing violently.

Dean's dry tongue slipped over his lips, seeking more liquid. Rolling onto his side, he struggled to roll onto his face to lap the water from the concrete before it soaked in and was gone.

Amos shook his head sadly, feeling pity for the broken figure before him. Figuring the least he could do was fetch another bucket of water, he filled it with boiling water, after all, why risk infection? Throwing it over the boy, he screamed, a red angry flush spreading over his exposed skin as the water burned. Blisters raised on the more sensitive flesh, warping and bubbling the skin.

"Don't look much like your dad now, sure he'll know it's you he's supposed to rescue? If he finds you," Dillinger smiled. "I wasn't planning this, but, I think that Karma's certainly made up for what happened before. John takes away my chance at my child, and now I take his."

His words were lost on Dean, who had done his best to curl into a ball against the pain, unable to roll himself out of the water, it was cooling, at least. His body screamed out for more liquid, food, but at the same time it begged for the pain to end. Darkness, sweet cool darkness took him, cushioning him gently as it pulled him into its depths wrapping loving arms around his aching mind.

John was doing everything he could to find his son. To the point he had involved the police, risking exposure of his own credit card fraud, hunting, and other problems that might be connected to him. Such as grave desecration which so far no one had tied to his name, but opening himself and his family to the police was just asking for trouble.

Day two, it was still day two.

"Daddy?" Sam asked, reaching his hand up for his father's. Sam never said Daddy, and he didn't like holding hands, not with him. Dean, sure, but not him.

"He'll be okay Sam, I can't promise anything about the other guy, but your brother will be okay. In fact, I'm sure he's doing fine right now. So long as he knows to keep his mouth shut," John smiled a little, making a pitiful attempt at levity for his youngest. Dean always got in trouble for mouthing off. "We'll find him Sam. Real soon."

John didn't sleep. Sam crawled into bed next to him, and John was forced to at least lie still. He would rather be out searching. He should be hunting that bastard down, getting his son back before something bad happened. Remembering a battered vehicle and then a battered house, John glanced at the alarm clock blinking steadily against the darkness. Six in the morning, he'd been sitting staring at the ceiling wasting time for six hours. And he finally had his answer. Lifting Sam with him, he stepped into his shoes, figuring he could lace them later, it wasn't like it mattered. He knew where his son had to be. The police had checked every apartment complex, John had searched the sewers, and every residence without a permanent owner had been searched. They had all ignored the crumbling ramshackle excuse for a house at the city limits. Not any more. Not bothering with the police, John geared up, exchanging rock salt bullets for real ones.

Sam woke up, "Dean?!" then looked around, realizing he was in the Impala. Glancing at his father's grim countenance, Sam's eyes rounded. "Is Dean okay?" he whispered.

"I hope so," John whispered back, gunning the engine and shooting out onto the road so fast that rubber stayed behind on the pavement. Day three. It had taken him three days to see the obvious. And because he was an idiot, his oldest son might pay the price. The son with Mary's eyes and her gentleness, the way his jaw hardened and jutted like Mary's. He lightly patted Sam's knee.

"You found him?" was the next question.

"No, but I'm about to."

"I hope we're fast enough," Sam whispered, looking down at his lap. The only response was the sound of the Impala's engine roaring against the early morning light.

Dean roused to the sound of footsteps. Not his father. Never his father. He figured on some level that Dillinger tromped up and down the stairs as often as possible to prove to him no one was coming. But John Winchester never let go. He still hadn't stopped hunting the demon, and there were never any leads. How much farther would he go for his own son?

"Good morning," Amos said with a pleasant smile.

"Go to hell," Dean spat, peeling his cheek away from the ground to raise his head. The words were barely recognizable in a face even less so.

"Oh, watch your language," he chided, kicking Dean hard. His bladder gave out again under the impact, but Dean didn't care. It didn't matter anymore. This was all about breaking him to break his father, so he couldn't be broken.

"Oh, watch your damned foot," he bit off. A few hunks of hair and scalp rested in the bloody puddle of vomit near his head. He twisted away from it, focusing his attention on Dillinger. A cold callused hand grabbed him by the throat, lifting him and slamming him bodily onto the table top. Dean groaned, then forced a laugh. "Go'n kill me," he dared, eyes taunting as best he could. They were swollen almost completely shut.

"Actually, I was thinking we could play with the nails again…I also found this razor in the tool box, I was wondering how sharp it was, why don't we find out?" Dean held onto the fact he couldn't scream, and let the pain carry him in waves down into darkness.

John wanted to scream in frustration. Where the hell was that house? He'd seen it, he knew he'd seen it. And that stupid crappy ass run down piece of shit car. Where the hell was it? Other side of town? No it was here, it had to be here, somewhere. Searching frantically, he realized he had to be wrong. It had to be the other side. For once, he let loose and swore in front of his youngest, probably teaching the boy all manners of word combinations he should never have learned for any reason.

"Dad, we can't stop looking," Sam whispered, unwilling to break the silence, but terrified that the Impala's circles and backtracking were just wasting time. He didn't want his brother to die when it was still possible to save him.

"Sorry Sam," John swerved the Impala around, fishtailing, before the tires caught and squealed, the vehicle shooting forward down the road again.

Dean roused enough to notice he was on the table again, hips shoved into it, arms outstretched, and his eyes fought to open wider in shock when he saw his hands. The nail pierced them between the fine bones, right on top of left on top of the table. His fingers twitched, and he noted the point of the nail dug into the wood. Shuddering, his legs buckled and he started to slide backwards, the pressure on his hands increasing, and he grunted, forcing his knees to lock and hold his body up.

"Awake?" Amos asked gently, lightly touching Dean's cheek in a sick parody of a caress. Unable to jerk his head away, Dean attempted to spit past swollen lips. All he managed was to push more blood out of his mouth and onto his face. "Still trying to fight me Dean?" he sighed benevolently. "That's really too bad," he commented.

"Screw you," Dean ground out. His arms were cut up from the back of his hands to his shoulders, shirt ripped away from his body forcibly. The razor had started to get duller and less fine, so Amos had discarded it, deciding instead to play with the other tools. Dean now knew what it felt like to have a saw grate against his skin, screw drivers had a whole new meaning, and he knew that nightmare about electric drills would plague him the rest of his life. Assuming he had a 'rest of' his life. If it ended in this mildewed basement, he would never forgive his father, not that it would matter.

But his father was coming. His father always came for him. Even in that foster care mess, John had come. When Dean had gotten lost in the forest looking for him, he had come. When Sam had run off at school, not wanting to leave, Dean had tried to find him, and both had gotten lost, and John had come. He always came. And Dean knew he would come this time, too. The boy just prayed that he wouldn't be too late.

"Y'know Dean, that's not a half bad idea," he pointed out, letting his fingertips trail over the boy's blood covered arm. "How's your hands? Not too tight, I hope," he said, lightly slipping Dean's belt from his jeans.

The wheels left unbroken in Dean's head started turning. He began to struggle as best he could, barely enough blood left in his body to keep him conscious, and not enough food or water. Amos gripped him by the back of his neck.

"We can't have that, can we?" he whispered against Dean's ear. Slamming Dean's forehead down into the table twice before Dean stopped struggling, Amos gently stroked his hair. "That wasn't so bad was it?" All Dean could do was groan, words were far beyond his grasp. Tears leaked out, mixing pinkly into the blood resting over the broken skin of his cheeks. Amos glanced around the room, half expecting John to appear in a last minute rescue. Although, Amos reasoned, John had been too late to save the girl.


	5. Chapter 4

**Chapter Four**

Pulling around a corner so fast Sam cried out when he was thrown against the door, John gritted his teeth. He had to get to Dean. It wasn't like he could afford to be too late – not with his own son. _I'm coming, just hang on._ He knew they had to be there soon. How big could the damned town be, anyway?

Sam cried out, pointing, "Is that the one, Dad?"

John glanced at the house. "No Sammy, it's not the right one." He felt his heart constrict and wondered if he should check it just in case. No. No time. It had to be the one with the run down Camino in the front. It had to be. There was no where else.

Amos pushed Dean's pants down from around his bruised and aching hips. Once they were low enough he pushed his foot between the boy's legs, stepping on his jeans and forcing them to the ground. Dean moaned softly when the rough boots scraped against his legs, chafing the already raw skin. He tried to struggle when Dillinger started on his boxers. Feeling Amos place his hand on the back of his neck Dean shut his eyes, trying to brace himself for the pain he knew was coming.

"When're you gonna stop fighting me, Dean? It'll be easier on you if you don't struggle. Told her that, and she fought me anyway. And look at what happened to her." Dean breathed wetly against the blood in his nose. "Oh come on, would I lie to you?" Dillinger asked gently as he forced Dean's boxers down. They were still damp from the combination of blood, urine, and water. "Looks like I didn't get you enough water yesterday," Amos chuckled, pushing his hips against Dean's to keep him up and against the table. Dean had no protests left to issue forth. The pain and head trauma had pushed him away, leaving his pain wracked empty shell of a body behind.

"The irony's beautiful isn't it, Dean? The event in my life your father used to ruin me will be the same one to ruin him. I just hope he's not too dense too appreciate the irony." He pulled Dean's head up from the table. "What'd you think? Too dramatic? Or too subtle? Because I think it's perfect," Amos smiled.

John looked at Sam, seeing the house. "When I get out of this car, you call Jim, tell him to come to the apartment," he said, looking his son straight in the eye. "And you don't come anywhere near that house, you hear me?" he asked, his voice forceful and cold, it was an order, not a request.

"Go," Sam replied, already crawling into the back to find the clunky cell phone to call the Pastor. John hadn't even waited for the response, grabbing his shotgun from the seat between him and Sam, and running to the house. The door was locked, of course, but the wood around the handle was rotted, and John twisted it hard, pulling out and simply ripped the knob from the door itself. Tossing it into the grass without a second thought, John entered, hating the screech of the rusted door hinges as he did his best to move silently. It wasn't like he wanted to startle Dillinger. Scoping out the house in case he had to make a quick exit, he couldn't risk rescuing his son just to get them both killed in a failed escape attempt. Not that he was sure he'd be able to leave Dillinger alive. But he was going to try.

He hunted monsters, not people.

Although, Dillinger was ten kinds of monster. But once he made one judgment call, he'd never stop, and he had enough on his plate with true demons. Nothing too dangerous in the house, other than the house itself. It was so dilapidated he doubted it would take much to knock it down. And John suddenly knew how to take care of Amos. Finding the stairs, he carefully let his weight down onto the first step nearest the edge where the support was strongest. Descending, he could see his son, and saw Dillinger working his own pants out of the way, his belt lying on the ground, the once shiny metal coated in glistening blood.

Dean could feel how much Amos wanted his revenge; in fact he could feel it pressing through the man's blue jeans and against his backside. Groaning was the best he could do before his body started to retch in fear, and blood swamped over his teeth and lips onto the table. Glad that at least his bladder was empty, he shut his eyes, waiting for the inevitable. He just knew that he couldn't let it break him. But he wasn't so sure that he wasn't already broken.

John didn't even think, he leveled his gun and fired into the only spot on Amos' body he could without risking Dean: his knee. Amos howled, falling to the floor heavily. Dean slipped boneless to the ground, the nail pulling away from the table, but not before tearing into the boy's hands even more. When his body hit with a soft thud before his head cracked against the cement without so much as a twitch, John felt his heart stop and shatter into a million pieces.

He doubted it would ever beat again.

Rushing forward, he hauled Dean into his lap, looking at his hands, and fighting the urge to vomit. He lost, and twisted himself away from his son while his stomach emptied itself further. Carefully pulling the nail out, John ripped his own shirt to make bandages to tie around Dean's hands. He almost threw up again. Dean pulled in a wet breath, and John felt relief crash around him in waves, supporting him. Touching his son's face, he felt blood and vomit flake and peel away from the skin. It matted down his son's hair on one side, probably where he'd been lying in it. Breathing through his mouth because he couldn't get enough air through his nose, John couldn't smell a thing, but he could almost taste the blood in the air.

"Hey there, hey buddy. C'mon," he whispered.

"Dad?" Dean croaked, his throat pulsed and his voice cracked.

"I'm here," he said gently.

"Knew…coming," Dean tried to smile.

"It's okay, it's okay," John said hurriedly when his son's lips cracked and bled. "Just stay quiet, I'm going to help you stand up for a second, we'll get your pants back on, and I'm getting you out of here, okay?"

"Dad," he started.

"Amos is dealt with," his voice hardened. Amos was still rolling in pain. Good. Pulling Dean up gently, "Here, lean on me," John told him softly.

Tugging up first his son's boxers, then his jeans, he realized Dean hadn't needed help dressing himself since about the time he'd been two, and every time anyone tried to help him he threw a fit. And if he managed to put his shirt on backwards, it was almost impossible to get him to put it on right. Except Mary could usually tease him and tickle him until she'd gotten it off, and then she'd hand it back, facing the right way, and Dean would put it back on none the wiser.

Doing the button and zipper, John noted they were damp, as were the remains of his son's shirt. Blisters were raised underneath the blood coating Dean's torso, and John figured it was just water. Hot water. "Son of a bitch," he growled, brown eyes turning cold with rage. Lifting Dean into his arms his son cried out in pain. "I'm sorry, I've got you, Dean, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry buddy."

Amos laughed. "Now what, John?" he asked, holding his bleeding leg. He would bleed to death without aid, and he couldn't walk. Not like that. John noted that Amos was still turned on by his son's pain, and stepped down, hard. Amos screamed, and John kept up the pressure until he felt something give way beneath his foot. It reminded him of the time he'd stepped on a slightly overripe tomato. Not trusting himself to say a word, John just walked out of the room and up the stairs.

Sam's white face appeared when John kicked the door down. "Sam, salt and burn it," he said, his voice so cold that Sam shuddered before running to the Impala to do as he was told. John found the hose, settling himself down in the grass, Dean in his lap. Turning it on the lowest trickle he could manage, he let it run over Dean's face for a few seconds, washing away clumps of vomit and hair that had been ripped out but plastered against his boy's skull with blood. When Dean licked at his lips, turning his face towards the water, John realized that more torture had gone on than he'd originally figured. Privation was not something he'd been expecting. Letting the water dribble over Dean's lips and into his mouth John found himself thankful the water still worked despite the condition of the rest of the house.

Dean coughed and choked before swallowing greedily. More water spilled over his cheeks than down his throat, but all the same, he felt better. Deciding he'd had enough, he curled into his father's chest, face pressed into John's flannel shirt. John turned the water off, looking for Sam. Seeing a blaze at the opposite corner of the house, John stood, and Sam was suddenly there.

"I called Jim, like you said. Then I told him to call Bobby to see if we could come stay," Sam said, lip trembling. He didn't want to leave, but one look at his brother told him they weren't staying. Too many questions would be asked about Dillinger's death and Dean's rescue. And in his heart of hearts, Sam wished that his father had let him face Dillinger to put him through the hell the man had put Dean through.

John knew his eldest was doing badly when he didn't even try to ask about Sammy. Glancing at his youngest, he nodded his head in agreement and thanks, before saying "Get in the car."

Not bothering to shift Dean despite any added driving hazard, John kept his son against his chest, ignoring the warm liquid soaking into his shirt, and knowing Dean was still bleeding. The first task would be to clean him off, John just wasn't sure how difficult it would be. It wasn't like he wanted to hurt his son worse. Sam sat white faced in the passenger's seat, silent tears rolling down his cheeks. Dean was never quiet, and he hadn't made a sound.

"When did Jim say he'd be here?"

"As soon as he could, even if he got a ticket," Sam mumbled, wiping at his cheeks so his dad wouldn't see.

"He'll be okay, Sammy," John said as gently as he could, even though he wasn't so sure, himself. Not sure if his boy was sleeping or just unconscious, John slid from the Impala once they reached the apartment, and he moved as quickly up the stairs as he could without jostling Dean too badly.

"What can I do to help?" Sam asked, voice cracking on the last word.

"Get your brother some fresh clothes and put them on the counter in the bathroom, then start making soup, okay?"

"Okay," he nodded, reaching up lightly to touch his brother's hand before disappearing to do as he was told. For once, Sam was being perfectly obedient. Stripping off the remains of Dean's shirt, John threw them in the trash, making a mental note to throw it out before Sam could see. Working off the jeans next, he threw those out, too, doubting his son would want to see them again. Besides, they were almost as ruined as the top. Someone had forced things through the material and into his son's body, and John prayed to the god he despised that nothing would become infected. "Sam!"

"Yeah?" the boy was at the door answering breathlessly in a second.

"Med kit, now," he bit off, barely able to keep his emotions in check as he started running the water in the tub waiting for it to warm to a little over room temperature. It wasn't like he needed to aggravate the burns. When Sam returned, John looked at the woefully depleted kit. "Go to Mrs. Brown, ask for hers, when Jim shows up, ask him if he has his."

"I told him to bring it," Sam whispered, eyes downcast.

"Oh," John said, shielding Sam's view of his brother with his own body. "Uh, Sam?"

"Right, I'll go get Mrs. Brown's," he said, "What should I tell her?"

"The truth," John said softly. "We found Dean, and he's in bad shape. But he's back and that's all that matters."

"Yessir," and Sam was gone again. John knew he'd have to let his boys see each other soon, or Dean wouldn't bother to fight to live, and Sam would fade away. He just didn't think Sam needed to see Dean in that bad shape. Especially with his scalp torn and hair missing. He looked like road kill. Lifting Dean gently into the tub, his son woke up a little, startling badly.

"It's okay, shhh, I'm here," John whispered, one hand on the back of Dean's head, holding him up so he wouldn't drown. It wasn't going to be easy to clean Dean up one handed. Hopefully Jim would be there soon, he was the only other person on the face of the planet Dean tolerated well when he was incapable of caring for himself. They also had the longest history together out of anyone else John knew. Picking up the washcloth, he noticed the water was already pink. Putting the washcloth back down on the lip of the tub, John gently brushed his hand through Dean's hair, freeing more clumps of dried blood and vomit. Gagging a little, he noticed the rash across his son's lower half, and gently turned Dean's leg, noting it wasn't just blood. Scraping a hand over his jaw, he gently caught Dean's hand in his, not able to forget the sight of his son bent over the table, arms outstretched and nailed into the table with Amos behind him. Gagging again, John turned his thoughts away and into the present.

"Dad?"

"It's okay, don't try to talk, I'm here."

"Sam?"

"He's fine, too. I promise. Dean, I need you to tell me where it hurts the most, okay? Can you do that?"

"Head," his son whispered back, and John wasn't surprised. In fact he'd be surprised if the bone wasn't cracked.

"Okay, that's fine. We can fix that, we'll fix that," he knew he had to just talk quietly and easy and keep reassuring his boy. Letting the water drain from the tub, a bloody ring remained behind once the water was gone. Grimacing, John wiped at it with a hand, sighing when it stained his palm crimson. While it wasn't comforting, at least now his son's wounds were visible. Amos had forcibly torn hair from his head, taking away skin with it. It was going to hurt, and he had a feeling Dean would start wearing baseball caps. It would be fine, it wasn't like it was a bad thing. Some kids did it all the time.

Picking through the first aid kid, John found the betadine, wondering if there was enough of the substance in the world to get his boy clean. Pouring the yellow substance directly onto Dean's skin with one hand, the other was being used to keep Dean in a sitting position, he got it into Dean's hair, too before putting the bottle down. Rubbing as gently as he could while still being sure he was working the cleansing agent into the wounds. Betadine was a yellow orange color, and foamed into a light yellow usually. It was pinkish brown with blood by the time John had finished.

Dean groaned under his father's ministrations, the soap didn't burn, but his father's touch hurt. Especially on his chafed legs. The urine combined with his jeans had rubbed his skin raw.

"I'm sorry Deano, I'm so sorry," John found himself repeating like a mantra against his son's pain.

"Dad!" he heard Sam yell, as Mrs. Brown appeared in the bathroom. She was holding her first aid kit firmly, and Sam appeared right behind her out of breath. "I tried to stop her Dad, I just-"

"How can I help?" she asked, cutting Sam off. The little boy was on the verge of tears as he peered around her, trying to see his brother. Pushing past her, he shoved past his father, dropping to his knees by the side of the tub, ignoring everyone, he lightly touched his brother's bruised and swollen cheek.

"Hey Dean," he said softly, seeing the green eyes move slightly until they focused on him. A weak smile, at least Sam figured it was a smile, spread across Dean's face.

"Hey Sammy," he choked out.

Feeling the tears well up, Sam kissed his brother's forehead and fled from the room. He didn't want anyone to see him cry. Hearing a knock at the door, John swore, figuring it was the police checking up again to say no word of Dean. Instead he heard Sam's voice half shout half sob and John knew who was there.

"In here!" he said, and Jim appeared in the doorway, a small black bag with a red cross on it marking it as yet another first aid kit.

"Lord almighty," Jim whispered, ignoring Mrs. Brown, he moved in concern to get a better view, and started opening the kit. Jim was for once not wearing the suit and collar that marked him as a preacher. "John," he was down on his knees, looking over Dean critically. "We might need to take him to a hospital," he said.

"No, we can't." He leaned closer to his old friend, and Jim tilted his head to hear better, gently picking up one of Dean's limp hands. He didn't fail to notice the hole directly in the center. "I burned…I burned the guy's place to the ground, after reporting to the police my boy was missing. I can't take him in; they'll ask too many questions."

"So you take him to the next town over and have him treated there," Jim hissed, carefully trading places with John so he could support Dean's body and John could rinse the betadine off. It had to sit for three minutes before it got washed off. Otherwise it didn't do much good.

"P'st'r Jim," Dean rolled his head in an attempt to turn it to face his friend.

"Hey Dean, how you feeling?"

"Head hurts," he shrugged, before pain flashed across his brutalized features.

"Don't move, moron," Jim scolded, lightly smoothing his hair, before remembering there was a woman in the room. Seeing John otherwise occupied with pulling threads of what looked like blue jean from holes in Dean's legs, along with working dried blood off, he turned to face her. Now wasn't the time for introductions, but still. "Could you look out for Sammy for me?" he asked politely, assuming she was a friend. "I…I'm a bit tied up," not that he'd forgotten Sam at all. It was just that Dean was the one who was suffering in a he-might-die kind of way. Sam would be fine.

Placing the kit down by the other two, "Yeah, and I'll keep the kids out of here," she added. Jim frowned, wondering what kids she was talking about. Shifting Dean and his grip so that the boy's head wasn't hanging back on his neck, Jim slipped an arm around his shoulders, allowing Dean's head to rest against his chest. Emily slipped away and Jim found himself praying.

John cleaned the wounds out before rinsing Dean off, just at one point giving up on his son's mouth and handing the pastor the washcloth to hold against his boy's lips. Draining the water again, John glanced over at his friend. "We're gonna have to pick him up," he said.

"I got him, you get towels," came the calm reply. Dean shifted, displaying the first signs of consciousness since he'd acknowledged Jim's presence. It had taken over an hour before John had been satisfied his son was cleaned up and the wounds wouldn't get infected. "Come on, we're gonna get you up," he said gently, and Dean jerked his arm, trying to catch Jim's hand. He chuckled sadly. "No, I'm just gonna pick you up, okay? It's fine," it wasn't like tugging on Dean's arm was going to do him any good. He'd still fall over even if it helped him up in the first place.

"D'n'need t'b'p'ked 'p," Dean pointed out unhelpfully, trying to make the words take shape around his swollen lips.

"Well, we'll see about that," Jim said, lifting him out of the tub, John already lending his aid and wrapping towels around Dean. This time John lifted Dean.

"I'll take him into the bedroom, if you'll take the med kits," John said, almost asking. Piling the two white plastic kits on top of each other, Jim tucked the black bag under his arm before following John by way of answer. Lying Dean down on the bed, towels tucked around his body, Jim had also managed to grab the fresh clothes Sam had laid out earlier. He could smell the soup cooking, and just hoped Dean would be capable of getting it down. And keeping it down.

Dean fluttered in and out of consciousness, sometimes asking his father and Jim what was going on, and other times letting the waves of darkness take him away. When ice was placed on his body over the worst of the bruising, he jumped and twitched, trying to get away.

"It's okay Dean," Jim said gently, smoothing his hair. "It's okay." They knew Dean's ribs were broken, and so far they'd done their best to repair the puncture wounds from what Jim would bet money had been a screwdriver. There was something done with a serrated edge to various places on Dean's abdomen, and upper thighs. Packing ice carefully against the inside of Dean's thighs Jim winced when the boy moaned, trying to pull away, leg twitching. "I know, I know it's cold," he agreed, figuring he wouldn't want ice shoved up against his body there, either. Dean probably felt like his balls were trying to crawl up into his stomach to get away from the cold. Dean's arms were bandaged from wrist to shoulder, Amos having taken a blade and slashed him at random intervals and random depths. Some had required stitches.

There wasn't much they could do for his head beyond icing it, some bandaging had been pressed against the worst places where his scalp had torn, but…it wasn't like there was a cheap cure for what was starting to look like severe head trauma.

Stitches on his cheeks where the flesh had either split or been cut hadn't been fun, nor had stitching up the gash in Dean's forehead from various impacts with the table. The back of his head also had been stitched where it had become acquainted with the concrete.

Neither man had any doubts that Amos had used his own belt to beat Dean, using the buckle to make sure it hurt. Both were just thankful it didn't look like there would be permanent muscle damage. But neither one was a trained physician. They'd just stitched him up, and taken advantage of having to bandage his ribs as a way to bind the wounds on his back.

John had taken a damp washcloth and wiped Dean down again before they'd put bandages over anything they had to stitch. So far it looked like there was no fever. Ice rested under Dean's head, against his left temple, and on his forehead in an attempt to bring the swelling down.

Bobby walked in, Sam trailing behind him hesitantly about an hour after they'd finished ministering to Dean. "Oh god," he mumbled, looking over the young man he'd come to consider family. Sitting gingerly at the edge of the bed, he found Dean breathing peacefully except for a slight whistle, probably dried blood or something, Bobby figured. Glad that if this was what the young Winchester looked like cleaned up and bandaged, then he would never have been able to handle seeing him before. Emily walked in a matter of seconds later, brow furrowed with concern. Sam crawled carefully onto the bed, lying down next to his brother like a particularly possessive guard dog. He had curled up so close they were almost touching. A few times he reached out to lightly smooth his brother's hair, or tuck the edge of a bandage in better, but other than that he was perfectly still, afraid to jar his brother.

"What…you found him? What about the janitor?" she asked John. All eyes in the room switched to the man. He didn't blink.

"He left some stuff cooking. I didn't bother to turn it off and I had to shoot him in the leg to get him away from Dean," he shrugged. No remorse, no guilt. Nothing. Just a cold simmering anger that would last for years. Emily's eyes widened, especially when neither Jim nor Bobby reacted.

"We've got to get him out of here John, he needs a transfusion, look at him."

"Just needs some fluids he'll be fine."

"Oh yeah? How's he gonna get those fluids in his body? Because I don't see any I.V.'s lying around," Bobby snapped.

"He'll drink it. It's fine. He's fine," John ground out. Dean moaned in distress when they started fighting. Jim smoothed his hair, leaning over to whisper in his ear and calm him, telling him it would be okay. Dean managed to move his arm in a jerky circle to get it up to where Jim's hand was, fingers curling around the preacher's hand. Jim wrapped his other hand around Dean's, gently holding on.

"John, I swear to God," Jim started, frowned and restarted, "I promise that I'll hurt you if you keep arguing in front of him, Bobby you too!" Both men frowned at Jim, before Dean started choking. Jim had him on his side in seconds, Sam moving back out of the way when all he wanted to do was latch onto his big brother and refuse to let go. Rubbing gently at the back of his neck because the markings down his back were severe enough no one wanted to risk touching them, Jim did his best to soothe the boy in place of his father.

John's eyes rounded in fear, "Dean, c'mon buddy, just breathe," he said, feeling panic start to overwhelm him. "C'mon buddy, c'mon," he whispered, bending over his son feeling his heart shatter further until the boy heaved in a wet gasp of air, and started breathing more normally. "It's okay Dean, it's okay," he whispered, stroking his boy's hair. Looking up at his friends, "Could you just…just…I need…please?"

Bobby and Jim trooped out, Jim gently taking Sam's hand, Bobby pacing the living room of the apartment.

"Dad?"

"Yeah, I'm here. We've got some soup, so, if you're hungry, and I know you're thirsty."

"Make 't stop," he begged.

"Dean, I can't, I'm so sorry," he pulled Dean into a careful hug, wishing he could fix everything, or at least take Dean's hurts as his own. The ice shifted away, and John had a feeling Dean wasn't very concerned. But they'd have to go back once he laid his son back down.

"Why?"

John knew what he was being asked. Why hadn't he come earlier? Why couldn't he stop the pain? Not just the physical pain, but the emotional anguish his son was feeling, why couldn't he do more to make things better? How was John supposed to explain that there wasn't anything he could do, he'd done everything. Was doing everything. Except for a hospital. Dean hated those anyway.

"I'm sorry," he told him. And then Dean started to cry. John rocked him gently, feeling tears of his own slip over his cheeks. The sobs wracked the younger man's body, threatening to rip him apart, and in his current state, it wasn't entirely implausible. John mumbled inanities doing his best to find some words of comfort. He eventually realized nothing he could say would help, so instead he hugged his son as tightly to his chest as he dared, knowing it wasn't over.


	6. Chapter 5

-Thanks to my betas, Mish and Sushi. I honestly wouldn't have bothered to write any more if not for them. Well, and Mattie because she actually reviews things. so good for her.-

**Chapter Five: **

"Dean's gonna be okay, right?" Sam asked quietly, startling Jim. The room had been deathly silent for the past half an hour.

"Sam, Dean's always okay," he said comfortingly. Bobby was still pacing.

"Should we bring him some soup?"

"I think your father will come out if Dean needs anything," the pastor said, gripping Sam's shoulder gently.

"No he won't, he'll just sit there," Sam fretted. "He never does a good job taking care of anyone, it's just Dean, and if Dean's too hurt to do it," the words burst forth like water from a dam, turning into tears. Jim put comforting arms around the little boy, not for the first time wishing that Sam and Dean were his own, because at least this never would have happened. Smiling a little, he remembered easily how much he had disliked children until John had asked him to help babysit Dean and Sam, what? Eight years ago? Ever since then they'd been like family. When Sam was calmer, Jim sighed heavily. "C'mon, let's go check on Dean, okay?" he suggested, wondering why John hadn't put in an appearance lately.

Sam silently pushed into the room, seeing his father resting against the headboard, Dean sideways in his lap, legs stretched out in front of him perpendicular to John's. Both were sleeping, John holding a cloth to Dean's mouth, one that was already soaked with bloody spittle. Neither moved at the sudden introduction of light to the room from the hallway. Looking at Jim, Sam moved away from the Pastor and carefully crawled onto the bed, finding a way to nestle himself in the space between Dean's legs, John's side, and the headboard of the bed. Curling into a ball, he lightly reached out, tangling a small hand in Dean's pajama pants, seeking comfort.

Jim backed out of the room silently shutting the door and turning into Bobby, and stumbled backwards.

"Is he okay?"

"Asleep."

"Are you sure that's safe?"

"It's been three days, who knows if he felt safe enough to sleep. Let him rest."

"Where's Sam?"

"Curled up with them."

"John's asleep, too?"

"All three of them. I figure it's best if we just let them be."

"That neighbor lady keeps asking about Dean, wants to know why she shouldn't call an ambulance right here and now. And possibly, CPS, too, from the way she's talking."

"I'll talk to her."

"And say what that I haven't?"

"I'm a pastor, people tend to listen to me, Bobby."

"No, they tend to fall asleep every morning before they go watch the game," Bobby snarled savagely. Then froze and looked at the closed door, not even breathing until he was sure he hadn't disturbed the worn-down occupants of the room.

Retreating to the living room, Jim saw Emily sitting white faced on the couch, clearly refusing to leave until she knew Dean was alright. "Excuse me, I don't believe we've been introduced, I'm Pastor Jim Murphy," he said politely, holding out his hand. At her skeptical glance, he smiled indulgently. "A pastor can't own a pair of slacks and a shirt?" he asked. "I don't go around in a black suit and collar all the time," he grinned, seeing her sheepish smile when she took his hand.

"I'm Emily Brown, my daughter, Lily, is good friends with Dean. And Pete, the three of them are pretty tight knit. When Dean had surgery they were all camped out on the couch with him, at least until John would get back from work and take Dean back upstairs," she said in a rush. Jim frowned.

"Dean had surgery?" this was news. Where was Bobby? Still pacing the hallway, "When was this?"

"A few days before he got kidnapped," she whispered. "That's why I think he should be in a hospital right now," she confided miserably.

"He's doing alright, Dean's never handled doctors well. In fact on one memorable occasion he punched one and escaped the hospital," he hadn't been too ill, more concerned about John who had been MIA at the time. And Sammy back at the apartment.

"What happened?" she asked, concerned.

"Oh, he…" Jim tried to come up with something plausible. "John was at work, and had left him and Sam at the apartment, and Dean just needed some air, so he'd gone on a walk, the details are sketchy from there, but he hit his head good on something, and ended up in the hospital. So, he didn't really know what was going on…" Jim trailed off. "I'm his emergency contact, and if I can't be reached, it's his Uncle Bobby, and then Caleb," Jim smiled warmly. "So, I'm afraid if we take him to a hospital he'll start fighting it and he'll set himself back in the healing process, John is, too."

"Lily'll be home soon, Pete, too."

"Dean's not up for visitors."

"My daughter's just as stubborn as John's sons," she shrugged.

"Dean's sleeping right now, when he's awake, if he wants, I'd be happy to come get Lily and Pete," Jim offered; trying to play damage control, since he didn't have Bobby to back him up.

"I don't think any of us are going to have any say in whether or not those two break the door down and burst in here," she said, "But I'll talk to her," she added. Just to make sure, but all the same, Dean could probably use all the support he could get.

John woke up when he felt something cold trickle down his arm to his elbow. It had started out warm, but by the time it got past his wrist it was chilled. Hand tightening compulsively as he shifted, he ended up squeezing the blood-soaked washcloth a little, causing the viscous liquid to leave its previous home and to drip on his son and over the back of his hand. Making a face, John noticed Sam there for the first time. Startling slightly, he realized his youngest had fallen asleep. Now he was trapped between the two of them, he noticed. Dropping the washcloth into the trash can because he couldn't put it down on anything, and there was nothing else he could do with it, he grabbed a tissue and wiped off first his hand and arm, and then Dean's mouth. Still too swollen for him to get his lips closed, and so with his head tilted down like that, it wasn't like he had a choice.

Dean groaned at John's slight movements, shifting and pushing his injured face deeper into his father's shirt. Responding to his sibling, Sam lifted his head, blinking owlishly around the room. "Sokay?" he slurred, still half asleep.

"Yeah, he's fine, Sammy," John said, using his free hand to lightly tousle Sam's hair. Shifting himself slightly, Sam curled up again and went back to sleep. It had been almost impossible to sleep without Dean in the room, and the ten year old was exhausted.

After a while Dean's occasional shifts became more frequent, and John sat up more to accommodate his son, who woke up blearily, pushing away ever so slightly from John's chest. "Sick," he slurred out, and John understood instantly, reaching over Sam to get the trashcan before it was too late. It was mostly just dry heaving, which couldn't be good for him at all, but there was some water that John had given him earlier.

Wondering if half the nausea was just his body's way of reacting to starving, John knew that when he decided not to eat for long periods of time, he would start to feel like puking. Maybe the soup wasn't such a bad idea. If nothing else, at least Dean wouldn't have to dry heave, it was worse than actually vomiting, John had always felt.

"Hey, lets get you some water or something, okay?" he grabbed a tissue and ran it over Dean's lips. "C'mon, we'll take a walk or something, your legs are okay, right?" they weren't really, but John planned on carrying Dean. If he thought he was moving of his own volition, then it was all the better for the both of them. Sam was out of the bed, door open, peering back into the room.

"Dad," he protested.

"It's okay Sammy, I got him," John snapped, surprised at the venom in his voice. Lifting Dean out of the bed, he felt his throat tighten when Dean's head flopped against his chest. "Still with me Deano?"

"Y'ss'rrr" came the slurred reply just when John thought Dean had passed out again. Carrying Dean into the living room, Emily was up on her feet and out of the way, moving to prop some pillows up to accommodate Dean better. Jim was already moving out of the room, returning with a washcloth. Once Dean was settled on the couch Jim gently wiped his face down again, the white cloth stained in smears of shocking crimson.

"John," Jim cautioned.

"I think it's just his gums, I had some teeth pulled back when Dean was just a baby and I was spitting blood for weeks," he shrugged, John was an optimist. Bobby stopped pacing, frowning.

"Too pale, he needs to eat something." Then Bobby looked up. "All his teeth intact?" he asked sharply, wondering how John could be so incompetent as to not check. John carefully swabbed a finger inside Dean's mouth, checking all his teeth were in and rooted firmly. One felt like it might be a little loose, but it was better to leave it alone, in that case. John just nodded, and Bobby breathed a sigh of relief, releasing a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. Dean made a slight face, seeming to reject the taste of what had to be betadine and blood.

"Can't feed himself," John whispered, holding up one of Dean's bandaged hands by the wrist. He was already losing the boy again. "Stay with me," he begged, lightly touching Dean's cheek, careful to avoid the stitches.

"Sam, get some soup in a cup, wouldja?" Bobby suggested, and the little boy disappeared for a matter of minutes before reappearing.

"Not too hot is it?" John asked worriedly. The last thing he needed to do was burn the inside of Dean's mouth. Amos had taken care of the outside of his body, scalding it badly with the hot water. Some places were blistered in patches.

"No," but he took a small sip to make sure before passing it to his father.

"You with me Dean?" John asked again.

"Wh't w'nt?"

"Care to buy a vowel there buddy?" John teased gently, "I need you to drink a little of this for me, okay? Just a little bit."

"I c'n do that," he slurred out.

"Good," holding the cup gently to Dean's lips, John figured a lot of the soup wasn't going to make it into Dean's mouth. He got luckier than he'd hoped. And Dean didn't just want a little bit, he drank the contents of the entire cup, trying to sit up when John removed the empty cup, seeking more. "Hang on, just hang on," John told him.

"I got it Dad," and Sam was gone again.

"John, he needs a hospital."

"He's not sick, there's no fever, the stitches in his stomach held, despite whatever that psycho did to him, he's staying here," never again was John letting things get out of his control like that. He wasn't leaving Dean or Sam alone, and they weren't staying in one place for that long ever again unless they had to. Less time for anything like this to happen. No more of this. And he'd never…hadn't prepared his boys for something like this. Failed them as a father, and he'd be damned if he was ever that soft again, so soft that his boys suffered for it.

Holding the cup against Dean's lips again, he forced Dean to slow down, only letting him have a few sips at a time. It wasn't like he needed the boy throwing everything up just as he'd gotten it down.

"Well for all you know he has new damage on the inside!" Bobby exploded, no longer concerned about upsetting Dean. "You saw the bruises, I can see the bandages, Jim tells me he's not in good shape!" Looking at Sam, it wasn't like he could hide this from the boy, for all he'd give his life to protect Sam from hearing any of it. "Damnit John, look at his head! Look at his face! You think that's going to get better on his own?!" Lip curling in a sneer, "You tell me you know if there's brain damage, or if there's pressure or bleeding inside his skull, 'cause I can tell it's cracked from across the room, even if you did stitch it up and put a pretty white bandage over it!"

Jim put a hand on Bobby's shoulder. "You tell me John," Bobby snarled, not done, as he shifted his shoulder out from under Jim's grip. "What the hell you can do for him that a hospital can't!"

"Protect him," John said simply.

"If he dies it won't matter!"

"He's not going to die!" John shouted, half rising from his seat until Dean cried out in pain. The door swung open with a bang, punctuating Dean's agonized protest. Lily with Pete right behind her, stared white faced into the room.

"We heard yelling," she said, looking at Sam before her eyes rested on Dean, realizing what she was seeing was her friend. "Oh god," she breathed, at his side in an instant, hands trembling when she reached one out over his chest hesitant to touch him before dropping her hand back to her side. "What happened!?" she cried, begging the adults around her to have an answer. A good one, one with a 'why' attached that would make sense of things. That would make it okay. Make it make sense. Because seeing Dean like that didn't make sense. Even when he'd been medicated and asleep he hadn't looked like _that_.

His eyes opened as much as they could, and he glanced at her. "Hey," his throat was bruised and his voice came out gravelly.

"Hey yourself," she told him, forcing a smile. She could feel her lip trembling, and blinked impatiently to hide the tears. Dean forced his head up a few inches, and Lily lightly slipped her hand under the back of his neck, fingers digging softly into the hair at the nape of his neck.

"Lon' time no see," he pointed out.

"Yeah," her voice quavered. "A little too long. I'd forgotten how much I don't like you," she teased him. He grinned slightly in response. Letting him down gently, she felt Pete come closer, knowing her friend was having just as hard a time dealing with this as she was. Although how Dean could still smile…that was beyond her.

"Pete!"

"Yeah," he ran a hand over his head before finding a place next to Lily. "Ready to come back to school? Teachers are actually worried about you."

"E'en Mr. Engels?"

"Especially Mr. Engels. He wants to know what could possibly keep you down for more than a few days. Figured you'd talk the wacko to death, and argue with him until he wanted to smash his face into a wall."

"Sa' all that?" Dean's brows contracted.

"Well, in less words. Said whatever it was, he figured it'd end up in worse shape than it started out in."

John thought of the bullet and the screaming howl Amos had sent him. Yeah, it was in worse shape, wasn't it? And the house. They couldn't stay long. Jim and Bobby were both refusing to help John move Dean anywhere, saying keeping him in the same place until they knew for sure he was stable was the best course of action. Bobby had stopped pacing, and was in the kitchen talking quietly with Jim. Emily kept trying to catch her daughter's attention so that they could leave. Dean looked like he needed the sleep. Lily didn't seem willing to leave Dean. Neither did Pete, who had settled in more comfortably, idly picking at the pillows and loose threads on the couch.

"Grabbed your homework for you, although I'm pretty sure you won't have to do it," Pete offered. Dean grinned weakly. Jerking his fingers in an attempted 'whatever' movement, Lily noticed his hands. Very carefully, she slipped her smaller palm under his, lifting it up. Bandages ran between thumb and index finger, looping around over the base of the thumb and up again, completely covering his palm. Both of them. His fingers seemed fine. Unwilling to ask what happened, because she really didn't want to know, she carefully laid his hand back down on the couch. Eventually Emily gave up and went into the kitchen sitting down at the table, and John joined her, talking quietly.

When Bobby went in to check on Dean, he saw all four kids asleep, Sam curled up at the other end of the couch, legs folded up to his body so he wouldn't accidentally bump Dean in his sleep. Lily's arm was draped over Dean's ribcage, her head on the edge of the couch, black hair a fan across the muted fabric. Pete slept with both arms folded under his head on the space of the couch between Dean's body and the edge. Unwilling to disturb any of them, he returned to the kitchen, settling in the chair across from Jim, while Emily and John sat across from each other. At John's look, Bobby shrugged.

"They're all asleep," he said, not particularly concerned.

Emily eventually fell asleep at the table, Jim getting up to watch over Dean, fell asleep in the chair next to the couch. Bobby had paced up and down the hallway until leaning against the mantle, lost in thought before he fell asleep standing up; which took some considerable skill to not keel over. John didn't sleep, he just stood watching the kids sleep, and wondered how he was supposed to justify taking Dean away from friends like that. But if he didn't, then the police would come knocking, and then they might take his boys away, and John wasn't sure he could handle that. Not again.

Dean's breathing started to get labored and Sam woke up, peering intently at his brother's face until things sounded okay again, and he settled against the armrest facing Dean to watch over him.

John left the apartment quietly, to go make sure that Amos would not be coming after him or his boys ever again. Hopefully the coroner hadn't had too much time to do anything with Dillinger's remains, so that it would be easier to just salt and burn them. Again. Just to make sure.

When he returned, he found the apartment completely empty. "Dean!?" Rummaging through the bedding, and overturning a few chairs in his anger, he knew exactly where everyone was, for all no note had been left. Rubbing hard at his face, he combed his fingers through his wayward hair, and tried to make himself presentable. Straightening his jacket, he glanced once in the mirror of the bathroom before leaving to go get his wayward son.

Earlier, when John had left, Jim had looked at Dean, and fought an inner battle with himself, before turning to Bobby. At Emily's urgings, the two men decided bringing Dean to the hospital was not the worst thing they could do, unlike what John claimed, especially if he had just had surgery. At the hospital, the nurses kept asking questions Jim didn't know how to answer, and Sam finally burst into tears screaming that they needed to help his brother, because he was hurt, and they were wasting time.

Jim and Bobby didn't have much to do. Other than come up with a damn good cover story. Because the truth? The whole reason John hadn't taken Dean to the hospital in the first place was the truth. It wasn't like it would do any good now to get John investigated by the police and charged with murdering Amos Dillinger. Although self defense was a rather legitimate excuse, given the condition Dean was in.

In fact, the best Jim was hoping for was that Dean would be there just long enough to get a good round of fluids and antibiotics to keep him alive long enough so he could heal. Along with replacing the blood and hopefully re-cleaning the wounds. They were stitched well, Jim was sure of that, but it didn't mean they were cleaned out right, or that there was no internal damage. Especially with the holes through the boy's hands…Jim wasn't so sure that Dean didn't need a doctor for repairs. Otherwise the pastor was convinced the boy would never have the use of his fingers again.

Getting him out of the apartment had been tricky, considering John's reaction to the suggestion. It had upset Dean to the point they had been worried he would hurt himself, until Sam started to cry and beg Dean to go. Of course Dean caved, and stopped fighting so much. But Bobby had carried him out to Jim's car –considerably more comfortable than Bobby's truck- and between the three adults they carted everyone to the hospital. Pete had settled himself into a chair by the window, more or less making sure it stayed closed so Dean could sleep, while Lily often sat on the edge of the bed just talking to Dean. Sam had, against the doctor's orders, crawled into bed with Dean, on top of the covers. Managing to nestle himself so flawlessly against Dean's side, the doctor didn't even try to reprimand the young boy and just let it go. If he wasn't hurting his brother, or obstructing the nurses from doing whatever it was they needed to do from time to time, then he could stay right where he was.

The concept of visiting hours had been laughed away completely, and no one left the room for more than a cup of coffee, a snack, or a short bathroom break.

Pete was currently the only person in the room, in a chair next to Dean's bed. Well, Sam was there, but he was completely asleep, having stayed up watching over Dean the entire night before. He was more possessive than most guard dogs. The nurses thought it was cute. Dean was on so many drugs he hardly noticed. Otherwise he would have had good reason to call Sam a bitch.

A nurse came in, ignoring Pete and Sam entirely, and started moving covers out of the way along with the horrible hospital gown. She was inspecting the saw cuts and other gashes in Dean's legs, but wasn't being particularly diplomatic about it. She'd probably had a long night shift and just wanted to go home and get off her aching feet. To Pete she looked like she probably could pull the age card on the Crypt Keeper. Eyes snapping open, Dean's back arched slightly off the bed, his arm curling tighter around Sam, who didn't wake but snuggled closer. Pete looked directly at Dean's face, doing his best to ignore the nurse.

Lightly gripping Dean's forearm as gently as he could, he felt Dean try to grip his forearm, but it didn't work very well. Shifting his grip, Pete managed to get Dean's hand on top of his arm near the elbow, his own hand palm up and still gripping gently. His breath hitching, Dean lifted his body up off the bed again, starting to breathe shallower and shallower. Without turning his head, Pete took a breath.

"Excuse me? Ma'am?" his mother always told him to say 'ma'am' because it was polite. Even if he hated the person. He didn't hate the nurse. But, all the same, the principle still applied. "I think you're hurting him," Pete kept his eyes on Dean's, seeing the pain through his friend's bloodshot eyes. In an undertone, "it's fine, it's almost over, whatever it is, it'll be okay," Pete told him, believing it because he really had to. And the doctors were saying that Dean had to believe he was going to get better, or he would just give up. And as stubborn as Winchesters are, they still had limits. Pete had no idea if the nurse paid him any mind or not, because Dean didn't start to look or sound any better. When the heart monitor finally started freaking out the nurse moved over to Dean's head and around the machinery as a few other nurses came running in.

After they left, Pete woke Sam up, feeling horrible. "Can you stay awake for about ten minutes?" he asked softly; Dean had been drugged into a peaceful sleep. But who knew how long it would last. Getting up, he carefully removed Dean's hand from his arm, letting it rest on the mattress before glancing back once at the frail figure in the bed and leaving.

At the nurses' station Pete straightened his shirt and did his best to look presentable and serious instead of like some punk kid. "Excuse me," he said quietly to the woman at the reception desk for that floor.

"How can I help you?" she asked.

"Well, I don't, I don't want to be rude," he said hesitantly, unsure of how to ask this. "But, I, my friend, he's in room 408, and…the nurse, I mean he's in bad condition, and…she was…I just, I'm sure she's one of the best, but…"

"I can have a different nurse transferred over to your friend, if that's what your asking," she told him, figuring she would talk to the patient's legal guardians about it before she did anything, but she would note the concern. It wasn't the first complaint about the particular woman, and the receptionist felt like it was just time for the old girl to retire.

"Thank you," Pete said gratefully, trying not to act too relieved before he returned to his friend's room. Hopefully that nurse wouldn't be coming back that day, because Pete was fairly sure he would do his best to keep her out of the room, and it would probably cause a huge fuss. But it wasn't like he would forget the fear in Dean's eyes, or the helplessness and pain. Especially when he'd been so calm just moments before. It wasn't like Dean had been doing well, but he'd been doing better. He kept asking about his dad, for all it had only been hours, not days. Pete kept wondering when John was going to show up, figuring that if it had been his parents, despite their workaholic ways, they still would have showed up. In fact, they would have taken him to the hospital. Although they would have let the police find him, and by then it might have been too late.

"It's okay Sam, you can go back to sleep," he said softly when he saw the little boy sitting up watching the door and then Dean alternatively.

"Kay," he said sleepily, rubbing at his eyes, before he curled back up against his big brother and fell promptly asleep.

**-reviews please?  
**


	7. Chapter 6

_Thanks to Mish for beta'ing. Thanks to Sushi for all her comment beta'ing. And you'd all better thank Mattie because A: I never would have finished this story ever, and even though I did a while ago, I would have NEVER bothered to update the rest. So, yeah. Reviews appreciated. I think this is the last fic I will submit, once this is done, I'm done. _

**Chapter Six: **

John Winchester strode into the building at ground level, preparing to play a police officer rather than father when he saw Jim and Bobby sitting in the lobby, clearly waiting for him. Feeling rage bubble up inside of his chest, John quickly closed the gap between them and him in a matter of seconds.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" he snarled, fingers curling into Bobby's vest as he tugged the man to his feet in one angry movement.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Bobby snapped right back, biting off the words. "That boy was dying, and you were just willing to let him all for the sake of your damned pride and stupidity! Dean's just lucky to have people in his life who actually give a damn about him."

"You think I don't love my boy?"

"Your son, you say 'boy' to a dog, not a person," Bobby interrupted harshly, glad when John recoiled visibly. Jim was currently watching, knowing that he would be called to put an end to the fight before it turned physical. John was scared and unable to cope with the idea he was so easily hurt through his children, and that he had almost lost one. Just like he hadn't been able to control losing Mary. But at the same time he owed Dean a lot better than some home care. Jim had initially believed they were just prepping Dean for transport, getting him stable enough to risk the long drive to the hospital. But for all he loved the Winchesters, John was still the head of the family. In the end, Dean's suffering had become too great to ignore, and Jim had stepped in to help him, along with Bobby and Emily Brown.

The Browns were currently at home, taking a shift at sleeping before they would come and relieve Pete and Bobby, Jim had decided to stay 'round the clock, considering he felt he could handle John best.

Stepping between the two, Jim was glad that he wasn't shorter than both of them, just John. "Enough, you're in a hospital, and you don't get to yell and fight like dogs in here any more than you can in my parish. I won't have it, Bobby go get some rest, I'll deal with this." Jim met Bobby's eyes unequivocally. Bobby nodded once, adjusted his cap, and glared hard at John before leaving. Breathing a sigh of relief, Jim hadn't been sure Bobby would listen to him.

"Jim, I swear to God," John started before Jim cut him off.

"Dean was unresponsive almost the entire time you were gone, other than a few incoherent protests, he was still bleeding somewhere on the inside, John, because it wouldn't matter what happened to his mouth, there wouldn't be that much blood consistently in it," he kept his voice level as he could, trying to hide how angry and scared he had been. "Turns out there was swelling in his brain from all that head trauma, he would have died, John, or ended up severely impaired the rest of his life." Seeing how shaken John was, Jim moved to the side, silently offering John a chair. He sat quickly and hard, like a puppet with its strings cut, deflating entirely. "They were able to do a lot more for his hands than we could, the doctor thinks he might be able to use them again, probably with just as much skill as before. His handwriting might take a turn for the worst, though," Jim chuckled, bringing out a smile in John. Dean had never done much about his penmanship, considering he'd never really needed to. His hands were accustomed to the gun, not the pen.

John swallowed hard, but Jim wasn't done. "Not to mention the stitches he had earlier? From the surgery you didn't bother to mention? Well, on the inside those were torn and had to be re-done, they threw all this doctor speak at me and Bobby for what felt like hours, stuff about contusions and edemas, John. I only know what about half it means, but instead of yelling at Bobby, you sure owe him your gratitude because without him Dean would have been dead some time in the next ten hours. If you were lucky, that is," he clarified, wondering if he'd managed to get to his friend or if the typical Winchester stubbornness kept him from hearing what he needed to.

"I couldn't protect my son, Jim," John whispered, rubbing a calloused hand over his weary face. "It took me three days to find him. And then you ask me to just give him up to some hospital? How'm I supposed to do that? He hates hospitals, you know that. Sam does, too. Hell, no one likes hospitals. And you're asking me to keep both my boys here, because Sammy's too stubborn to leave Dean's side?"

"I think you should be proud of Sam," Jim interjected gently. "He's doing what you trained him to do."

"And what would that be?" John snapped, feeling his anger rise again.

"Help the helpless."

"Dean's not helpless!"

"Oh, okay," Jim shrugged. "So he'll finally be helpless once he's dead, is that it? John he needs help. He needs a doctor, trained medical professionals. You have field training, you admit that. You also say you've never killed anyone, John," he added. "Don't make your first kill your own son."

Opening and shutting his mouth a few times, John shut his eyes to hold back the tears. "I coulda taken care of Dean," he whispered as a mantra against his failure. He'd have to be harder on the boys, so nothing like this ever happened again. He'd make sure they could handle themselves against people, instead of just demons. "I need to see him."

It wasn't a request, it was a command, but Jim simply stared for a few seconds. "He might not even be conscious, he wavers." Usually because of the drugs, but scaring John a little might prevent him from deciding to do the in-home treatment again.

"I need to see my son."

Jim stood up and started walking, taking a left turn without looking back. John would either follow or he wouldn't.

Dean looked around the room with bloodshot eyes, processing Sam at his side –always at his side, and his father, and Jim. And his father. His father?

"Dad?" he begged. Please be real. No more dreams, no more daymares. He wanted his father.

"Yeah, it's me," John smiled weakly, at his son's bedside in an instant. "How're you feeling?"

"Better," Dean mumbled, more or less adding 'now that you're here' with his eyes and the slight tremble in his lip. John sat carefully on the edge of the bed, not wanting to jostle his sons before slipping an arm around Dean's shoulders. The boy winced before curling into his father's side, seeking comfort.

Pete had backed off when John came into the room, figuring there was something he could do for Dean to make his life a little easier. Getting up, he quietly told Dean goodbye; not wanting to interrupt anything or really make himself noticeable to John.

Dean pressed his face into his father's shirt, snuffling miserably before suddenly jerking his head away, leaving an arc of bloody mucous on the soft cotton. Feebly pawing at the stain, tears of shame rolled down his cheeks as a silent accompaniment to his pitiful attempt to fix John's shirt.

Lightly catching his son's hand, John did his best to soothe him, "It's okay, no big deal. It'll wash, okay? Besides, we both know I've had so much worse plastered all over me, huh Dean?" he grinned weakly. No real response. "It's fine, okay?" His other arm curled around Dean's middle from the top, carefully pulling him closer so that he would know nothing he did could make John leave.

Blood dripped from his nose pooling in the crease of his lips before spilling into the corners of his mouth to overflow and trail down over his chin in twin falls of blood.

"I got it, it's fine, sorry buddy, but this isn't going to feel good," John whispered, pinching down on the bridge of Dean's nose and getting one hand under the back of his neck to support his head. Dean stiffened and tried to tug away at the last touch. Remembering, John let go, instead putting his arm back around his son's shoulders in a loose half-circle of protection and warmth. No protest was issued, and by the time the bleeding stopped, Dean was asleep. Able to lay him down without waking him, John got up and soaked a washcloth in lukewarm water before returning to gently wipe the blood off Dean's bruised face.

Sam sat up, his tousled hair almost completely obscuring the upper half of his face. "Dad?"

"Yeah Sammy?"

"Thought you weren't coming."

"I'm here now. There were just some things I had to take care of."

"I know. Dean missed you."

"There were just some things I had to check."

"Was the body still there?"

"Couldn't get in to check, I'll have to go back at night."

"Dean won't like it."

"Dean'll just have to suck it up, Sam," John bit off, before looking down at his oldest and wishing he could take back those words. Even if it meant he had to cut his own tongue out, he would have done it. But it was too late for that. His youngest scrunched up his face in anger, and laid back down, his back curled into Dean's side as he deliberately denied his father the ability to face him. "Jim and Bobby are here, too, and Lily and Pete. And it looks like you stayed, Dean doesn't need me."

"You're wrong," Sam whispered, "you're always wrong," but John didn't hear.

He wasn't even listening.

_two more chapters. Reviews welcomed. _


	8. Chapter 7

_Well, thanks to Mish for Beta'ing, thanks to Sushi for her comments and encouragement. Thanks to Mattie for poking at me to upload things... repeatedly.I think I'm just going to end it at chapter 8, rather than bother to continue the story, and I'll slap a nice short epilogue on there to end things.  
_

**Chapter Seven: **

"Dad?"

"He's not here, he left. Like he always does," Sam muttered in a tone much too dark for any ten year old.

"Whuh?" Dean twisted with a pained grunt to face his sibling.

"Dean," Sam whined, wishing his brother would just stay still and take care of himself.

"I don't, where's Dad, Sammy?" he slurred half the words together, and Sam pushed himself up into a sitting position.

"He's gone, Dean," Sam snapped, then his mouth went into a perfect 'O' shape. "Sorry. He's coming back soon," he lied. It wasn't like their father was ever around when they needed him. But when the man's oldest son was in critical condition? He couldn't be bothered to be around.

Pete walked in holding a small plastic bag, Dean eyed it as best he could through his bloodied vision.

"Brought this for you," Pete told him.

"Wha' issit?" Dean half asked half mumbled.

"Sweat pants, figured you weren't a big fan of that weird papery nightgown thing," he shrugged.

Dean managed a lopsided grin. Not that he was sure he'd be able to get them on by himself, but no one had to know. "Than's," he said, tipping his chin up the slightest bit in acknowledgement. His face was still pretty swollen, and it made it hard for him to talk clearly. Pete grinned a little, settling the bag within arms reach.

"I'll leave you alone so you can get them on, if you want," Pete offered.

Dean nodded, winced at the sudden pain, and then tried to act like he was fine. Waiting until Pete left, Sam took the sweats out of the bag, figuring asking Dean to do that was a bit much. He glanced at his brother, wondering how this was going to go down.

Dean grinned weakly, "Dun' think I c'n do this, Sammy."

"I can help," he offered.

"Dun' want help," Dean pointed out.

Fifteen minutes later Sam let Pete back into the room, and Dean had the covers off, revealing very baggy grey sweats. Pete nodded. They both knew that Dean wouldn't be around much longer. Not in a dead sort of way, in a John was up to something and they were leaving kind of way. Having told them when they first became good friends that he'd moved around a lot, and didn't expect to stay very long. It was hard to face the reality. With a wan smile, Dean settled back onto the bed more comfortably, wishing that a nurse would come in to administer more pain killers. It was starting to overwhelm him again.

"Where's Dad, Sam?" Dean asked, talking slowly and fighting his mouth for clarity. The swelling was starting to go down, but he was still barely recognizable. It would be an improvement once his hair grew back, but it would take a while. His scalp had to heal first.

"I don't know," it was too late to keep lying. Dean wasn't stupid, and even Sam could tell the drugs were starting to wear off. "He didn't say when he'd be back, either," Sam added defensively, knowing that Dean would ask him almost immediately. And he didn't have the patience to deal with it. Their father was being a jerk, and he was hurting Dean, and Sam was sick of it.

Dean's eyes rounded at the snap in Sam's tone, and then his expression softened. Sam's jaw clenched, Dean was always being so understanding and tolerant of everything. He never let anything go, he just took whatever life handed out and acted like he deserved it. And their dad did the same, letting Dean think that all the crap that happened was just part of life. Something you had to live with, something you couldn't fight. And it pissed Sam off.

Crawling off the bed, he saw Pete in the chair, just waiting, being there if Dean needed him, but just acting like part of the scenery. Walking out of the room and slipping through the door Sam figured Jim would be in the lobby. He was always in the lobby. Just waiting. Trying to make sure that he could be there when John wasn't, because John was just too busy with more important things. Like anything was more important than his son.

"Sam?" Jim wasn't too surprised to see Sam sit down next to him, eyes downcast as he fought tears. He didn't make a move to comfort Sam, because he knew the boy would reject it and start crying, two things that neither of them wanted to have happen.

"Where's Dad?" he asked. Sam wasn't the type to start with the whole preamble. Dean was the one who didn't want to admit to having questions, and did his best to avoid directly asking them.

"He's taking care of a few things so he can take care of you guys even better, okay?" Jim told him, hoping to God it was the truth. He figured it would be, John always did everything for his family, even when it was incredibly stupid to an outsider, it was still something John believed was in his family's best interests. He would die for his boys at the drop of a hat, but it didn't mean they wanted him to, or thought it was the only solution. "All your dad has to do is make sure some things are in order so that you guys can be safe, okay?"

"Hiding our tracks so the police can't find us when we go to Bobby's, huh? And Dean gets to leave his friends behind, and they won't be able to find any trace he ever existed," Sam mumbled, feeling the anger well up along with his tears. "Does he hate us?"

"Your dad?" Jim asked, shocked at the abruptness of the question.

"Yeah," Sam whispered, eyes downcast. He had to know, for real, whether or not it hurt him worse to know the truth, he had to know.

"Sam," Jim said softly, forgoing the male taboo and wrapping his arm around the little boy. "Sam, your father loves you with everything in his heart," Jim started.

"I don't think Dad has a heart," Sam mumbled, "That's why we always move, he never has a heart to care about anything enough to stay."

"That's not true, Sam! That's not true! Every move hurts him just as much as it does you and Dean, even more, because he hurts for both of you, and for all the people who care about you that you have to leave behind."

Sam looked up at Jim, eyes full of pain. Slipping off the chair, he retreated to Dean's room, crawling back onto the bed, he hated hospitals, and sighed. Dean shifted his arm the slightest bit to allow Sam more room and to avoid being jostled. His body ached constantly and the last thing he needed was Sam bumping him and hurting him worse.

Jim stood up; hands on his lower back as he arched his spine trying to relieve the pain from sitting slumped in a chair all day. Wincing when his back popped and crackled, he hadn't thought he was that old. Trudging into Dean's room, he forced a smile for the boy half swallowed by blankets and pain. Sam was sleeping again, something he probably needed, but not as much as his sibling.

"Hey there Dean, how're you feeling?"

Dean shrugged, then winced, his face going white with pain. Eyes watering he blinked quickly several times, before looking like he wanted to sink into the bed and disappear.

"No worries, it'll get better," Jim smiled. He pushed the call button, figuring another dose of morphine wouldn't hurt Dean. In fact he might go back to sleep, which would be good for the boy. He was starting to look a little better, less swollen, more like Dean. When the nurse came in, Jim could have sworn he heard Dean sigh in relief.


	9. Chapter 8

_Thanks to Mish for the beta, thanks to Sushi for the commenting, it was helpful and encouraging. Here's the thing. I have two more chapters, and I could easily write more, and I have an epilogue. Leave me a review if you want to see the rest, or I'm just ending it here (Mish? Sushi? I'll email you guys the rest if I finish it, but I don't see the point in wasting anyone else's time. Oh, and everyone thank Mattie for pestering me to write, or I wouldn't.) _

**Chapter Eight: **

Dean woke up alone in the room for the first time. Strangely, no panic gripped him, but adrenaline coursed through his body all the same. Carefully using his hands, agony lanced up his arms, but all the same he removed the medical equipment from his body, careful to leave the tape to keep his wounds closed. Unsure if he was going to be able to do it, he slipped slowly off the edge of the bed. Two days ago John had finally convinced Sammy to go home, and get some real sleep.

But his father was there, not in the room, but in the hospital, judging by the clock. Dean was relieved to finally be able to see clearly, albeit through a pinkish haze. His limbs were obeying him so much better, too. Moving shakily towards the machines he carefully turned them off. He was always managing to get the hell out of these places; they usually had to leave in a hurry.

Seeing John asleep in the waiting room, Dean carefully slipped to the elevator, grateful for the sweatpants Pete had lent him, because he was able to shift the hospital gown to look more like a shirt that way, tucking it in while still having enough room to let it hang and look like a shirt that was only slightly too large. And kind of ugly, but it would work. Stealing into the elevator when no one was looking, he gratefully collapsed against the bar used as a handrail. Feeling his legs tremble, and the muscles in his hands start to seize, he was afraid he wasn't going to make it. But all he had to do was get to the car. That was all that mattered. He wanted out. When the elevator stopped, Dean could feel when it reached the ground, pressure racing up his calves and into his thighs. He groaned, before almost falling. Fairly sure he might have started bleeding again, he managed to get himself out of the building and spit blood into the bushes. Looking around for any orderlies or anyone who might recognize him or try to detain him, he spotted the Impala.

Almost falling, he slammed against the door, glad it held him up. Hand searching for the handle, he found it instantly, wrenching the door open with all his strength. It opened about halfway, which was enough for a fourteen year old boy to get through easily, and he slipped into the back seat, pulling the door closed behind him. Tugging the duffels and blankets around himself, he slipped in the gap between front and back seat, hoping to remain hidden. Knowing that they were leaving, he had to say goodbye to Lily and Pete first. He didn't want them to be added to a long list of people he never saw again. Before he knew it, he was completely passed out in the back, sleeping peacefully without the aid of morphine for the first time since he'd been kidnapped.

John sighed, glancing at the door to his son's hospital room. Unwilling to go in again, just to see Dean passed out on drugs, bruised and battered, he left. Going out to the car it took everything in him not to run. Sliding into the driver's seat, he pressed his forehead against the wheel, wishing that Mary was still there to guide him. To protect the boys. John knew if he'd never started hunting, then Dean wouldn't be in that kind of shape. In fact he'd probably be enjoying school, maybe starting to date a little, have some good friends…be playing baseball. He was a natural athlete. But no. Life just wasn't like that. Maybe if Dean just didn't look so much like her, maybe then things would be easier. But he didn't know.

When he reached the motel he stopped again, trying to process what was going on. He had to get Dean out of the hospital. Jim and Bobby were still around, renting motel rooms in the closest place to the hospital. John hated himself because they visited his boy more often than he did. But he just couldn't stomach it. Sometimes when he remembered pulling his son up off the floor he'd start to gag, and would end up losing his last meal. But he was alright and Dean wasn't. There were so many things wrong with the world, and he had failed to prepare his children for it. John had always thought teaching them to deal with the monsters that hid in the darkness would be enough. But yet an ex-marine had gotten ahold of his boy and almost killed him. Raising his boys as soldiers hadn't been enough, he hadn't prepared them for all the enemies. Not the right ones, not the ones that walked in the sun, not the ones that hid behind a mask and were unrecognizable to the untrained eye. But how did you teach your children to look between the good and evil and see the difference, instead it was better to just teach them to hate, to be suspicious, and to be ready to destroy anyone before anyone could destroy them.

But what kind of men would that result in? What kind of monsters would he create, in teaching his boys to see evil all around them? What kind of parent could do that to their children? But how was he supposed to prepare them, save them from ever experiencing torture like that ever again. Sam had been hurt, too, tormented by his brother's absence, and the fear. All the same he'd have to train them harder, make sure that even if he couldn't prepare them for everything directly, they would still be able to survive. Even against a deranged marine. But wasn't he just another deranged marine? Hell bent on vengeance, unable to see anything else.

No.

He saw his boys. He cared about his boys. He'd die for them, and let the vendetta end. Only because in his heart of hearts he knew that his sons would continue on, and they would hold the demon to vengeance, and they would make sure that it never hurt another family ever again. So that no one else had to suffer, no one else had to learn how to deal with someone missing all the time, a chunk of their heart gone. And Sam…he had to train them so that Sam wouldn't…damn that demon. So that no other family ever had to lose a mother and a son. Wasn't the threat of death enough? Everyone was always just inches away from death, car accident, food poisoning, old age…so many ways. Wasn't that enough? Without some damned demon determined to take your family and completely destroy it.

God he needed his son to heal. Needed to see that Dean was okay, that he could recover, so that they could salvage what was left of their family. God knew John couldn't raise Sam on his own, and he'd admit that Dean had all but raised the boy, but not out loud. He would never admit that he'd managed to fail both his sons like that, forcing Dean to become a father to Sam, when what Sam really needed was a big brother and his father, not in one person, the relationship should be different. Different people. Dean didn't need the burden of being both a hero and a villain in his brother's eyes. Not in the extremes the dual relationship was causing. God how did he save his sons from himself? Maybe they'd turn out alright anyway, so far they were going fairly well.

Dean crawled out of the Impala hoping to get inside the apartment before the hospital realized he was missing and called his father. Or Bobby and Pastor Jim. Stairs. Stairs be damned, he figured, reaching them. His hands ached. Flexing his fingers was a painful exercise that made his eyes water. Hell so did walking, reminding him of every razor slash, every time the screwdriver was driven into his skin, the sound of the electric drill, the raking agony of a saw against his sore and burned flesh. The smell of his skin when it was burned by the boiling water, the smell of human excrement, and the absolute shame at his inability to save himself. The blood, that copper tang against the dull musk of the basement. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he fought them back, hand over his mouth to hold the sobs in as the tears spilled over his cheeks, and his body shook. Sometimes he felt like the sobs were going to shake him apart, he was so weak. Didn't need to be crying. In a matter of seconds he was calm again, and took a breath. Stairs. He could do that. Had to say goodbye. Then he'd go up to the apartment, and they could leave. His dad could be happy, and things could be okay again.

He didn't want to leave.

What choice did he have? What choice did he ever have?

It was always what his father wanted, what was 'best' for the family, like it was really a family anymore. Not the way John ran it, no. It was some sort of elite military training camp. Wondering how he could hate and love his father the way he did, he took his first step up the stairs. Weak muscles burned with exhaustion and disuse. He was trembling by the third step up. He felt like he'd just ran a marathon, or been lifting weights for half a day straight. Another step. That was all he had to do, take them one at a time.

His hands ached when he rested one on the railing, and he figured it was sympathy pains in his left, the agony in his right lancing up into his shoulder, and his fingers spasmed. Another step. Halfway up the first flight. Another to go. Then he could say goodbye, and then he could rest. Then things would be okay again. They had to be. Things always got better after they left. A new identity, a new start. No one would know he'd been too weak, no one would know he'd ever needed surgery. No one had to know he hated his classes, hated his life. Resented his father, resented his brother, sometimes, too, and hated himself all the more for it. For being weak. For still feeling. For opening up to people, when he knew he shouldn't. It never ended well, it was never worth it, because he never got to say goodbye. And he got to hate himself for breaking the trust of yet another person, of hurting yet another person. Failing to do what he was supposed to, what any friend would do. Never finding a payphone to call from, just disappearing into the night like a shadow. But it was just what he did. It was just how things worked.

God he hated this. Hated everything. Hated hunting, hated leaving, hated school, hated living in shitty apartments, crappy motels, hated rats, god how he hated rats.

His lungs heaved and burned with his efforts, and his breath rasped against his throat, and the rawness of it was starting to bring him to his knees. Then he realized he'd made the first landing. One more to say goodbye, and then one more to go home. It was like a board game, get this card go on so many spaces…he could do this. No railing to hold onto. Well fine then, he'd make it anyway. It wasn't like he had a choice, at this point. He never did, did he? Another step. Was school still going on? He didn't know what time it was, and if he'd checked he had no concept of it passing. Voices on the stairwell. Pete's…and Lily's. No breath to call out, or he would have. Sped them up to him, so that he could rest that much sooner. But he didn't have the air left in his lungs. Sliding down against the wall, he figured maybe they would find him.

All he'd have to do was sit and wait.

"D'you think he's okay?" Lily asked quietly, she felt like she hadn't spoken above a whisper since Dean went missing.

"Dunno, we could go back to the hospital later, maybe," Pete offered. "Even if he's not, probably helps that someone's there with him."

"Isn't his dad…"

"Yeah, his dad does so much. He's never in there, and you can tell Sam's pissed at him."

When they reached the landing Dean saw that Sam was asleep on Pete's back, and his brother's school bag in Lily's arms. He struggled to pull himself up before they noticed him being weak on the floor. He couldn't do it.

"Oh god," Lily whispered, dropping Sam's bag in shock before rushing over to his side to help him up onto his feet. As gently and slowly as she could. "Dean, you, you idiot!" but her voice didn't get any louder. "What the hell were you thinking? I could just slap you!" she hissed. He grinned weakly at her, and she hugged him as tightly as she dared. Sam pushed himself up on Pete's back as he woke up, and then slipped out of the older boy's arm, pushing himself between Lily and Dean to latch onto his brother, knocking him back against the wall. Dean groaned a little, seeing spots splatter across his vision, Sam quickly let go, eyes rounding in concern.

"Dean, I'm sorry!" he cried out, tears forming. Dean forced every aching muscle to kneel in front of his brother.

"It's okay, I'm okay Sam. We're leaving today, okay? Go tell Dad…if he's here. Please," Dean added, before Sam nodded, not even grabbing his backpack before racing up the stairs.

Dean met Pete's eyes, and a silent understanding passed between them. There wasn't much needed here, and he nodded once, smiling. Dean bit into his lip, for once, glad of the pain keeping him from begging them to hide him, he didn't want to leave them. He hadn't been there long enough.

Then he looked at Lily. "This isn't how it ends," she told him with a weak smile.

"But it's how it has to."

"Looks like you paid attention in English once or twice," she nodded, biting her lower lip to hide the trembling.

"Don't forget me, okay?" he asked.

"So long as you don't forget us."

"Never could, even if I wanted to. Not saying I don't, either," he teased, leaning against the wall, grateful for its cool solidity.

Two sets of feet pounded down the stairs, one light one heavy. "Dean?"

"Yeah Dad. Ready to go, just, Sam's gonna need his bag," he nodded a little as Lily and Pete faded down the hallway. If they weren't there, they wouldn't be lying when they said they didn't know what happened.

"Hospital called just as Sam was coming in. Jim and Bobby'll know soon, and they'll be coming here."

"Thought we were going to Bobby's after this?"

"Looks like not this time, I've got your stuff, otherwise we would have been down here sooner. D'you think you can walk?" John asked, brown eyes traveling over his son's bedraggled and weakened appearance. When the young man nodded, John rolled his eyes, and lifted Dean into his arms.

"I can walk!" he protested, sounding like the sulky teenager he had been not so long ago.

"And I can carry you a lot faster, and we'll be out of here that much faster. So shut up," John said a little more coldly than he intended. But it was easier to submit with no other alternative than to simply let one's father carry them. Dean stayed quiet, one hand working itself into the flannel over-shirt John was wearing. By the time they reached the Impala Dean was asleep, so exhausted it would take him over a day to wake. John settled him into the front seat, figuring it would be easier to keep an eye on him.

"Sammy get me a blanket, please," he asked his youngest, as he started loading their things into the trunk as quickly as he could. Sam hauled a blanket out of one bag, passing it to his father before stuffing his backpack into the back seat. It would keep him occupied on the long drive, while their father found somewhere else for them to be. Someone else for them to be. He watched his father toss a blanket over his brother, Dean's head being shifted to rest on John's leg while they drove. It was a familiar pose Sam remembered from when he and Dean were split up for being too annoying, only usually Sam found himself in the front seat, Dean in the back leaning against the door and window.


	10. Chapter 9

_This is so against my better judgement. But, whatever. This is for you, Mish, but I'm telling you, no one's reading. Anyways, I don't remember if this chapter was beta'd it's been so long, I know 10 and 11 aren't. Oh well, right? Thanks to Mish and Sushi, for being insane and thinking this story's got some merit. Ick. And then after that, I'm going to be obnoxious enough to ask for reviews? Considering I actually got some last time... *gasp* _

**Chapter 9: **

Dean rolled over in the motel bed, looking around blearily. He wasn't feeling well. It had been a few days since they'd left his friends behind. Left the life he'd been doing okay pretending to live far behind. And now their dad was never around. And if he was it was constantly to yell drills and orders. More than ever before. Dean had gotten used to being told what to do, up to a point. But this was insane. He could barely handle five push-ups, and John asked for fifty. Sam often threw a fit, whenever John asked, screaming about studying and other things. Mainly because with every time Dean pushed his body up, he bled more. The wounds hadn't healed, and John was demanding more than Dean had in him to give. To make him stronger. Better. Dean understood it was to keep this kind of thing from ever happening again, he just didn't understand why it couldn't wait until he'd healed at least a little bit. His body ached, and when he shifted himself up, puncture wounds screamed at him to stay still. Looking at the blood spotted sheets, he blinked away tears. He needed Sam's help to get his shirts on, because of how hard it was to stretch his body the necessary ways. The over shirt was fine. His arms ached all the time, his legs burned…remembering the saw scraped across soft flesh. Dean had nightmares every time John left a screwdriver lying around.

It was still dark, and one glance at the clock told him he had another five or six hours before he really had to be awake. They weren't in school yet. Not for a while, apparently. But he'd be back in it soon. A few days…which was a while for Sam. For Dean it was a time all too short to heal. He hadn't even had a full two weeks out of the hospital. In fact it was barely one. Rolling over he went back to sleep, sheer exhaustion dragging him under.

Sam sat up a matter of hours later, his brother's strangled sleep-sobs waking him. Unsure of what to do, he just know he hated his father for this. It was all John's fault. If he'd just let Dean stop training, let him sleep, and make him eat more, rather than accepting the fact he only picked at his food, maybe things would be better for Dean. Maybe he'd be healing, instead of thrashing weakly in his sleep. Maybe he wouldn't have trouble with his clothes, or reaching the food on the upper shelves of the craptastic excuse for a house John had chosen that time. Staring at Dean, the wheels turned in Sam's head, and he slipped out of his own bed, rubbing at his eyes hard to make them water. Not that he needed the help, just looking at Dean and thinking about the hell their father was putting him through was enough to make Sam want to cry anyway. Shaking Dean awake, Dean looked at him in confusion.

"No' time t'ge'up issit?"

"No," Sam said tearfully.

"You 'kay?" Dean asked, starting to sit up.

"No," Sam mumbled again, "I…there was this…I had one of those nightmares…"

Dean forced his body up, arms trembling. "About Mom?" he asked, and Sam nodded. Shifting himself further towards the edge of the bed, Dean obligingly made room for Sam to crawl into bed next to him. Sam snugged his back against Dean's, feeling Dean shift so that the contact was smooth. Having brought his own pillow, Sam had it angled much the way Dean angled his, part for the head, and then his arms wrapped around the rest of it. Listening to his brother's breathing slow, it was still hitched from pain, but at least he was sleeping peacefully.

When John slammed open the door, shouting at them both to get the hell up already, Dean just about had a heart attack, knife in hand ready to fight. For all his body wouldn't hold up. Sam could have taken him right then, and Sam knew he'd never be able to take Dean. Even if he could, he wouldn't want to. Not ever.

"Wha?" Dean asked dazedly, once he woke up enough to put the knife back under the pillow.

"School, I told you both, get your asses ready," John snapped.

"Did not!" Sam said, sitting up, and scaring his father half to death, because he hadn't expected to see Sam not in his own bed. "You told us we'd be out of this town and so we didn't have to go here. You liar!" Sam shouted, before starting to angrily fling things into his backpack and stuffing things into Dean's, before debating and taking some things out. Whatever would be easiest for Dean to carry. His body clearly hurt. Sam wasn't sure what he'd need, so he grabbed the barest minimum he could justify having taken.

John was completely taken aback by his youngest, who usually complained about not being able to go to school. In fact since when had Sam started yelling at him? Dean's labored movements as he worked to get himself ready for school chased John from the room. He didn't want to see how much damage still remained. If he could just ignore it, it would go away. But he knew it wasn't true. So he had to push Dean, he had to make him stronger, he had to make him better, and faster, because John knew he wouldn't survive going through this with his son again. And he wasn't sure Dean would survive again, either.

Dean stuffed his feet into his shoes, glancing at Sam. He was too tired to say anything to his brother, and all he did was hope they didn't have to walk to the school. Even if it was just a block. Lifting his bag, he glanced at it, not particularly heavy. Hauling Sam's up, he almost toppled over, having anticipated a lot more weight than he lifted. "Got your knife?" he asked with concern.

"Same place it always is," Sam replied casually, "I already stuffed yours into the front pocket."

"You know I keep it in my jeans or my boots," Dean pointed out, and Sam shrugged.

"You can move it later."

"Whatever," he muttered, but Sam knew that what his brother meant was 'thanks'. It wasn't like Dean felt safe without it, but Sam knew he would have forgotten it without it already being in his bag. Seeing Dean shift it into his jean pocket while he waited for Sam to get his shoes on, Sam grinned a little.

"Since you idiots were so damn late, looks like I've got to waste my time giving you both a ride."

"We'll walk," Sam growled, and Dean looked at him apprehensively.

"Sam," he whispered, not wanting to walk, trying to shake his head enough for Sam to understand. And then Sam looked up at him, and Dean realized Sam wanted to skip. Sam…wanted…to…skip? Sam? Skip? School? "Yeah, we'll walk," he said, nodding his head, before stopping; it made him nauseous. The head trauma was probably the worst, he figured. Beyond feeling the punctures in his flesh, feeling the stitches rub against him, and pull. Feel them give way at his father's orders.

"Don't want you boys late your first day, get in the car." It was the voice both boys recognized as being the one they never managed to argue with. Or even wanted to. Sam meekly slid into the back, and Dean made to follow him. "Get in the front, you're too old to be sitting back there," John snapped, and Dean just about jumped out of his skin. Slipping into the front seat, he was dropped off first. And he felt his heart clench in his chest when his father drove off, Sam in the back. Were they even coming back? John hadn't said. Hadn't even given him a bus number. Nothing. Didn't know the address of that shithole they were staying in. Wondering if he'd been able to pay enough attention to walk his way back, he knew his legs wouldn't hold him. Biting down hard on his lower lip, he didn't even know where to go. The office, sure, but…usually their dad had this paperwork stuff, and could just tell him. Or at least was trying to convince the principle that their school records were coming. Something. This time, no, he was completely abandoned.

Sam watched as they drove away, leaving Dean behind. "You didn't even tell him what class to go to!" he said, outraged.

"Well, Dean can just go into the office and ask. They know there. About time he started doing things for himself."

The moment they got to Sam's school, about four blocks away, Sam crawled out of the back seat, and John made a move to get out, "I don't need your help," he told his father, slamming the door, and mumbling 'I hate you' under his breath. It made him feel better as he took off running as fast as he could for the building. He would find out a way to leave and get back to Dean. Dean could pretend to be a visitor for Sam at Sam's school, they'd done it before so Dean could avoid class. And then he could claim to be volunteering in an elementary school. Reaching the school, Sam asked where his classroom was, and decided he'd skip out around lunch. Or maybe he could call Uncle Bobby. Or Pastor Jim. Even if only Dean got away…maybe he'd have a chance to heal before John caught back up with him.

Dean trudged wearily into the hallway, and was immediately yelled at by a teacher for not being in class. Dean's eyes rounded out in shock, and he fought the urge to run. Or fight. He was pretty sure a knife would make the guy back down.

"Go! In the office!" the guy snapped, and Dean just stared blankly at him.

"That's where I was going," he said softly.

"Excuse me?"

"I…this is my first day here…my dad just dropped me off…I don't know _where_ I'm going," Dean said softly. The guy's face softened a hair, but not enough for Dean to relax any.

"The office is this way," he said calmly. "I'm the Vice Principle, and you are?"

"Dean," he said softly, missing the days the high school was right next to the elementary school.

"Got a last name there, kiddo?"

"Winchester," Dean didn't even have the energy to grind his teeth at being called 'kiddo'. Of all the stupid things…

"Right, I've actually got your schedule here," Mr. Vice Principle man said, passing Dean a blue piece of paper. Dean glanced it over, mentally closing himself down.

"I've taken these classes," he said softly. "My dad should have had already had my transcripts sent."

"Taken which classes?"

"Math and science. I've taken biology, chemistry, and physics, and passed them all. And then, I've gotten through Algebra I and II, and already did pre-Calc." It wasn't a lie. He'd been moved around enough, and depending on the high school, Algebra I and II were only a semester each, so in a year you'd done both, instead of two years. They'd stayed some places more than long enough to pass a class with the same teacher. And technically Dean had taken quite a few sciences via Integrated Sciences, so he'd managed to weasel his way out of those classes. It was just English he couldn't avoid. And having to take electives, and gym. Damn, he was supposed to be in gym. Laps if he was late, he'd wager. Not suiting up? More laps. He couldn't do laps. He was probably already bleeding, wishing Sam was there, Dean shut his eyes again.

"Here's a map of the school, we'll sort this out tomorrow, okay?"

"Yeah, sure, whatever," Dean said, taking the map. Since he had no clue where he was in the building, other than a side wing, he glanced at a classroom number to orient himself. Gym. Gym first period. Why? Whoever was up in charge in the clouds was a sadistic son of a bitch.

Showing up late in class, Dean got hit full in the face with a ball when he opened the door. Blood was the first thing he tasted, and fear ran through him, reminding him. Power drill. Blood. Backhand across the face. Face slammed into a table, over and over…the crack of his skull against cement…

The whistle blew sharply. "Stop!" the coach called out, jogging over to Dean. "You alright?"

"Yeah," Dean said, catching himself from spitting blood onto the floor.

"Go'n spit, I'm Coach Briar, and I don't give a damn about their floor." Taking Dean's schedule from him without asking, "You're the new one. Got a gym uniform?" he asked, looking around the room. "Whichever one of you idiots threw the ball at the door, sit your ass on the bleachers, the rest of you, get back to the game." Basketball. No wonder it had hurt so much.

"Yeah, just…didn't get my schedule until I showed up. My…my Dad didn't tell us we were going to school here, but he found a job so we're staying a while, I guess." Didn't know how long, didn't care. He'd survive. "So…didn't know…"

"You're a bleeder," Coach Briar said calmly, "Go'n shower up don't worry about it. Just find your classes, and if you're late you can either run laps or spend some time in detention."

"Yessir," Dean mumbled. "Where…"

"That one at the end, and take this, keep you out of trouble. If I don't get it back tomorrow the moment class starts, I can promise you that your life'll be a living hell."

Dean caught the small lanyard with a piece of paper attached reading 'hall pass.' "Yessir," he repeated, before disappearing up the stairwell to the locker room. Pleased to see it really was the boys' and not the girls'…some coaches were sadists. He opened his bag, not surprised to see a change of clothes. Well, a different shirt, and some shorts. Dean figured he'd only bled on his shirt, so he'd be okay. Painfully hauling it off his body, he winced and twisted to look in the mirror.

"Christ."

Dean whirled around, eyes wide. Seeing another guy, about the same build, Dean clutched his shirt possessively to his chest. Then smiled as cockily as he could, "Yes?"

"That's cute," the other boy settled himself on the bench and started stripping his clothes off, before gathering a washcloth and a few other very basic showering supplies. Dean watched for a few minutes, before using his shirt to stem the blood-flow from his nose. Once it stopped, he stuck his shirt under the faucet, cold water. Dean heard the shower turn on. "You gonna clean yourself up?"

"Not with you!" Dean called back, grinning a little. He might do okay here, he figured, then stopped that thought. No friends. They weren't staying long enough. He hadn't allowed himself a friend in school since Mili until he met Lily and Pete. Then he decided he was done again.

"Jake!" he called over the spray of the shower, sharing his name.

"Dean!" rubbing his shirt under the water. At least it was a dark shirt, so even if he couldn't get all the blood out, it would be okay.

"What the hell happened to your face?" Jake asked, carefully not saying a thing about Dean's arms, back, or chest.

"Well, my Mom was a real stunner, and my Dad ain't half bad, so I ended up like this," Dean said smugly.

"Oh, yeah. So they smashed your face?"

"Jealousy's an ugly thing."

"I can see that," Jake grinned, "first day?"

"Yeah, that easy a mark?"

"Well your face sure was."

Dean shrugged. No big deal. Clearly he'd had worse. Struggling with the white shirt Sam had stuffed into his bag, Dean barely got it on himself without incident. Tugging on his over-shirt next, he pulled on the leather jacket as an armor around himself. If nothing else, he'd have some padding in case something hit him somewhere other than the face.

"What's your next class?"

Looking at his schedule, Dean sighed. "English."

"Mine, too, wonder if you've got the Old Bitch."

"Mulberry?"

"Yeah. You're gonna hate her, everyone does."

"Why?" Dean wasn't entirely sure he wanted to go to class now. Not that he'd want to in the first place, but his instinct to find Sam was growing ever stronger.

"Well, you're not gonna believe me, but that old bat? We're in high school right, Freshman?"

"Yeah," Dean said cautiously, settling on a bench to re-order his backpack, which meant making a mess of the careful system Sam had set up inside. Therefore making everything more easily accessible and findable.

"This one kid actually had to go to the bathroom, had a condition and everything, pills and shit, and she wouldn't let 'im go."

"You're kidding?"

"No. Parents tried to sue the school, dunno what happened, but Mulberry's still teaching. If you gotta piss, do it now," Jake told him.

Dean was fairly sure his leg was being pulled, or that it was just some tradition for upperclassmen to tell the underclassmen that story. And then it got spread down or something. Either way, he did make a stop in the bathroom on the way down to his class. Didn't want to be in the locker room anymore in case someone else decided they wanted to talk. The less people he spoke to, the smaller the ripples when he left. The bell rang, and he felt his body settling into the rhythm of school again. Bell rang, go to next class, avoid crush of people. He knew that he looked like crap, shadows under his eyes, cheek bones more pronounced than usual because of how little he was eating. Sitting down at a desk towards the back, the teacher looked up.

"Dean?" she wasn't as old as he'd initially expected. Maybe sixty at the oldest.

"Yeah," he said cautiously, standing up, considering she had waved him forwards.

"When the bell rings again and everyone's here I'd like you to introduce yourself."

"I'd rather not," he said softly, feeling his legs trembling. All he wanted to do was sit.

"Do it from your seat."

"Ma'am," he said quietly, before realizing he didn't want to make enemies with an unknown quantity.

"What?"

"Nothing," he told her, sitting back down in his desk, wincing when his backside touched the seat. He ached everywhere. Having been beaten like that…at least he was protected by the desk. The back of the seat was freezing, and he leaned forward to avoid it, remembering the cold of the cement against his body. And the cold stare of his father's disappointment. Shuddering slightly, he looked up when students piled into the room.

"Dean if you wouldn't mind?"

_Actually, I do. _"I don't know what you want me to say…"

"Why don't you tell us where you're from?"

"What is this, kindergarten?" he groused under his breath. "Uh, I'm from all over. My dad's military, so we go wherever." It was a decent enough lie. One that Sam would probably be telling to his class, as well. But Dean didn't think it would matter if they did tell different stories. Not like grade kids were going to be mixing with high school students, or that they'd share about random kids appearing in their classes.

"Do you have any family in town, Dean?"

Rolling his eyes, "No." _Done asking those stupid questions?_ Ready to kill the woman, he pulled out his notebook, deciding to pretend to be interested in the assignment on the board. Although he wasn't entirely sure that he wasn't going to try an exorcism on this god awful bitch.

When lunch finally rolled around Dean was fairly shocked to see Sam crossing the street to the front of the school. Jogging across the front lawn to meet him, his body ached and felt badly jarred with each step.

"Sam what're you doing here?" he hissed.

"I don't like my classes, or my teachers, Dean. I hate it there."

"Dude, you just got there!" Dean paused. "You like school!"

"Not here. I wanna go back to the house," he made his face crumple and Dean lost any ability to refuse. He wanted to leave, too.

"Fine, I'm going, we're going, let's go."

Sam slipped his hand into Dean's, and Dean looked at him and then rolled his eyes. But he didn't pull away, and it allowed Sam to monitor his brother in a way that he couldn't otherwise. Dean clenched up his muscles when he was in pain, which meant his hand would tighten, too. Even with the still healing holes in his palms. The healing holes everywhere. Dean begged in his sleep sometimes. _Please don't. God no, please don't. Stop, please just stop. My dad's going to kill you. Stop…please, I can't…god, no, please._ Sam knew more of what had happened than John did.

"Aren't you a little old to be holding hands?"

"Aren't you a little old to miss toothpaste on the side of your face?" Sam challenged, and Dean's eyes went wide, scrubbing at his face.

"There's nothing there!" he said within seconds, and Sam laughed. "You little bitch!" Dean joked, lightly poking his brother in the side. Sam squealed.

"No fair!" Sam yelled, pretending to be upset for all of ten seconds. Dean wasn't really all that ticklish, for one thing, and for another, Sam couldn't poke him without reopening some gash or hitting a bruise. Dean looked like he'd been fed through a wood chipper. At least he had, now maybe just a meat grinder. There was a park, with a bench, and swings, and a whole bunch of mothers with toddlers. Sam could feel Dean fading next to him, and knew that his brother would have probably fainted before the day ended.

"I wanna sit down, my legs are tired," he whined, and Dean just rolled his eyes. The weather wasn't bad, and Dean had yet to complain about being in the sun other than the time he ended up looking like a lobster. Their dad had asked if he should get some lemon, vinegar, and some tartar sauce for Sam. Dean had asked about the garlic butter, and had wanted to know what barbarian treated lobster like fish'n chips. They sat on the park bench, and Sam let his legs dangle. Glad of the rest, Dean forced himself to breathe full and complete breaths rather than the shallow ones he'd started taking as the pain had worsened. "Dean, I don't wanna stay here."

"It's not exactly like we can just go, I mean I don't have a car, Sam. And even if I did Dad would hunt us down and probably chain us up or something." Dean's hands rested in his lap, one leg hitched up onto the park bench as he spoke. "Besides dude, where would we go?" he asked, spreading his hands helplessly. Sam just looked at him.

"Uncle Bobby's, or Pastor Jim's," he pointed out calmly, and Dean knew that his brother was trying to sell him on the idea.

"We can't just ask that, Sam! We're only supposed to go there in case of an emergency, or Dad not coming home!"

"And this isn't an emergency?"

"What?"

"Dean, you can barely walk! Dad doesn't care, he's just being meaner and meaner, all the time! And school? Without telling us anything? You gotta get better, Dean," Sam's eyes filled with unbidden tears. For once he wasn't trying to manipulate his brother into agreeing with him. "Maybe if you get better he'll stop being so mean!"

Dean was utterly taken aback, half wondering if Sam was mad at him for not healing fast enough. It wasn't like it was his fault. It would probably be the one thing in Dean's life he didn't blame himself for. Sam caught his expression.

"I don't like it when Dad's being mean…I just want it to stop. And if he'd leave you alone, you'd get better sooner, and then he could be nice again."

The two of them sat there for hours. Sam didn't suggest moving again, and Dean was too stunned to say much of anything. The day was still warm, and he didn't notice how long they'd been sitting there until the sun started to set. Looking over at Sam, his brother was awake, elbows on his knees, brooding. Dean knew that look, and was starting to guess that there was going to be a huge fight between Sam and their dad whenever they got back. Then Dean realized he didn't know the way back, and he doubted Sam did, either. Not like they'd been paying much attention.

When full dark hit, Sam simply inched closer to his brother.

"Dad's going to kill us," Dean whispered, not minding the cool night breeze.

"Well he should have told us what was going on before. Now it's his turn to be confused," Sam groused. Dean looked at his brother and wondered when Sam had turned into such a brat. Yawning, his body was shaking with exhaustion. Sam seemed to just take it as being cold, and curled up into his brother's side. When they saw the park thrown into a sharp relief, and then heard the rumble of the Impala's engine, they knew they were screwed. Sam felt Dean go rigid next to him, rather than the previous comfort they'd both been sharing. Sam tensed, and Dean glanced at him. He lightly squeezed Sam's hand, already saying he was going to take the blame. Not that he'd have a choice, because John was over to them in seconds, hand fisting into Dean's shirt and jerking him onto his feet. Dean cried out in shock and pain, and found his face less than an inch from his father's.

"What the hell were you thinking? Taking Sam out of class with you!? You boys were safe there, and you've been missing all day! Your schools called me, saying you were both gone! Do you have any idea how worried I've been!? What could have happened to you both?! Especially with…" he shook Dean a little. "especially with you…"

"Like what happened to Dean?" Sam asked innocently. "Maybe if he got to stay home from school he'd get better faster, and you wouldn't have to worry anymore."

"Sam, it's fine. It was my idea to cut, and I came and got you," Dean said, eyes darting between father and brother. "It's fine, Sam, I'm fine. I've been up all day, right?" Didn't add that he still spit up blood sometimes, or that his body ached, and stitches tore, or that sometimes the pain was so bad he couldn't sleep, and threw up his dinner. He didn't add that he just wanted to go to Bobby's like they'd planned from the start. Or Pastor Jim's, because he liked some of the people there at Jim's church. People he remembered from being young. Meredith, for one, she'd played with Sam, after he'd thrown a temper tantrum and destroyed the church altar in front of the cross. Jim'd talked to him until he was calm and then he'd reclaimed Sam from her. Dean could feel tears of pain forcing their way into his eyes, beading behind the lids.

"Dean," his father growled dangerous and low. Sam realized his brother's feet didn't quite touch the ground, and that his brother was in more distress than he'd initially supposed. Dean understood that his father was reacting from blind fear, and transferring it to rage to hide the fear. Sam just saw his older brother getting hurt. He shouted, and ran off, next thing he knew he was in a heap on the ground, and John was pounding after Sam, who was surprisingly agile despite how slow he was. Well, he was so young it wasn't like he really was going to outrun his father or brother. Hauling himself up on the park bench, Dean felt his legs shaking, and knew if he didn't stand on his own, things would be worse for him later. All the same he used the back of the bench to hold himself up.

John caught up with Sam, hauling his youngest into his arms. Sam squealed and flailed like he had when he'd been several years younger, glad to have distracted his father from his brother. It was all worth it for whatever punishment he managed to get. Dangling from under his father's arm, Sam allowed himself to stop fighting, arms and legs hanging straight down towards the ground. Glad his father's arm was around his rib cage rather than his stomach, he could breathe just fine. Waiting until they were almost to Dean, Sam slipped free and ran to the car, slamming the door and pretending to sulk in the back seat. Dean wearily picked up their bags, swaying with the weight of Sam's, and dumped them into the back seat on the floor, before hauling his wearied body into the passenger seat, barely able to keep himself awake long enough to remember the way back to the house.

Sam was told in no uncertain terms to go to his room and to stay there, unless he really wanted to get a paddling, and Sam, for once in his life, clued in and stayed quiet. John backed Dean against a wall, yelling at him in a hoarse undertone. All Dean could do was to nod his head and say 'yes sir' over and over. But it was never enough. Finally, sent to bed, Dean collapsed on top of the sheets. He could see Sam crying in the bed next to his, and sighed.

"It's fine Sam."

"I don't like it here," Sam repeated, and Dean sighed, kicking his shoes off and listening to the solid thud as they hit the floor. Deliberately shifting his covers around and making a lot of noise, Dean moved over, to allow Sam to crawl into bed next to him, if that was what was necessary to make the crying stop. Sam did as Dean predicted, and the two of them fell into an uneasy sleep. Dean rolled and shifted constantly in his sleep, still fighting a losing battle against his father's words.

If they only knew how much worse things would get...

_if you'd like to know how much worse things could get? Leave a review... because..I am evil enough to leave it hanging there... _


	11. Chapter 10

_Thanks to Mish for the beta as per usual. This Chapter...just go with me on this guys. It's part of the master-plan, and it goes from general irritation with John to fluff. I promise I don't think John is evil, and you won't continue to see that in this fic. If you are, I'm not getting my point across anyway, but still. Either way, if you want more review. I so far have about 3 of 4 more chapters done...that I may never post. So... _

**Chapter 10**

Dean woke up when his father burst into the room he and Sam shared. John glanced at Sam's sleeping form, and jerked his head at Dean. Slipping his legs out of the warmth of the covers, he bit his lip when his bare toes touched the freezing floor. Cement. Boiling water turning to ice against his skin...he shuddered. Following his father silently from the room, he looked at the older man in confusion.

Rubbing at one eye, "What's up?" he asked.

"Get dressed, gonna time you running."

"What?" Dean refrained from asking 'now!?' like he wanted to. "Time me running what?"

"A mile, and I want you back here in eight minutes. No later than nine if you expect to not do this again any time soon."

Dean stared blankly at his father. A good mile was six minutes. An average mile was eight. He usually ran them in around eight, considering he was more built for sprinting. Dean had a feeling even with Sam being as young as he was, if they had to perform some kind of test of endurance, Sam would win the running bit. Nodding, "yes sir," he mumbled.

John watched Dean go get ready, and shut his eyes. In boot, they pushed you further than you ever thought you could go, to the breaking point, and then you realized you could do it, and that you'd made it through unbroken. It was what he was trying to do for Dean, to make him realize that Amos hadn't changed anything, that his boy was still strong. At least John told himself that he was proving it to his son, not himself.

When Dean reappeared in sweats and a grey hoodie, John sighed. He wasn't sure it was a good idea, but it was too late to go back now. Showing doubt inspired doubt in your troops. Feeling sick again, he watched Dean glance at him apprehensively before walking out the door. John didn't bother with a stop watch, he just wanted Dean to come back to him. He felt that if Dean really…if he wanted, he could just leave. This way. John would come after him, of course. But he'd let him have a head start. Get to Bobby's or Jim's before he decided to drag his ass back.

He didn't notice Sam slip out the door, too, since he was busy freeing the clip from his favorite hand gun, and then checked the bolt on his rifle. Dean tended to favor that one, probably because it was a little heavier for the type of shells, so it was steadier.

Sam caught up to Dean, it wasn't like his brother was moving fast, or even trying to. He was moving pretty slow, an easy jog, but he was still barely picking his legs up. It was chilly out, almost cold, and Sam knew full well Dean never breathed well in cold air. It seared his throat and lungs and he would start to cough and then his breathing would get worse and worse…Sam eyed him. He knew Dean knew he was there. But they were both agreeing to ignore each other. Dean's stride was longer, even as stilted as it was, and Sam stayed behind him, given the difference in their strides normally, things were just about even at that point. Aware of his legs burning, his lungs aching, and the fact his mouth was so dry he couldn't swallow and his throat was on fire, his insides hurt. Everything was getting ragged, his breath, his running, his vision. Stopping, he bent over, hands on his knees, he gasped in air, before gathering enough to throw up. It was just dry heaving, but all the same Sam was panicking.

"Dean, Dean!" Looking at his brother, he was able to herd Dean off the road at least, "Dean, stay here, stay here! I'll get Dad," Sam said, face white.

"No," Dean heaved, "Don't, don't tell Dad. He'll just get angry, I'm okay. I'm okay, I can finish the run."

"I swear to god, I will knock you out myself," Sam growled. Dean's eyes widened a little, and he nodded, hauling his knees up to his aching chest, and feeling various hurts scream out at him for attention. Instead he pressed his forehead to his knees, trying to keep himself calm, and centered. He didn't want to feel the pain.

Looking at Dean, shaking despite his arms wrapped tight around his drawn legs, his brother was already coated in sweat. Generally Dean did okay with the runs, didn't breathe too hard, nothing. Sam ran full out, feeling like he'd never run that fast in his life.

When he banged through the door John actually pulled a gun on him.

"Sam, what the hell?" John snapped.

"Dean," Sam gasped, trying to convey his urgency.

"Damn," already on his feet, John let the gun stay on the table, already running, the door swung open on its hinges, slamming the door so hard it snapped shut, almost on Sam. He wrenched the door back open, and shot after his father, already breathing so hard he could barely run. His legs burned. It wasn't like they'd gotten more than what, half a mile? But Sam didn't usually sprint that fast for any reason, much less that far. The 50 yard dash was no half mile.

Dean had crawled further away from the road, choosing some grass over the sidewalk. He'd decided soft and wet was better than hard, cold, and wet.

John made it, chest heaving with panic more than anything else, "Dean, you okay?" he said, "get up," he needed to know Dean was okay, needed to know he could stand. Dean looked hazily up at him, smiled weakly.

"I'm okay, Dad, just…don't think I can get up yet."

John crouched down, catching Dean's chin gently, "What'd you do? Hit your face?" he asked, and when Dean looked at him in confusion, John lightly ran his thumb across Dean's chin just under his lip, before showing his son the fresh coating of crimson staining the whorls of his thumb. Dean's eyes darted to the side, and John looked over, seeing what he'd missed. A small puddle of blood on an otherwise pristine dew covered sidewalk. "Alright, let's get you out of here. Get you two to Bobby's for a while," he said softly, pulling Dean's arms until his eldest was up on his feet. Dean swayed, and John hooked an arm under his knees, lifting him easily,

"I'm fine, Dad," Dean groused, but before John had even taken three steps Dean was out cold, face pressed into his father's thin white under-tee. Sam followed behind, brooding. There was no other word for it. Bobby's, at least.

"Rather go to Pastor Jim's," Sam piped up.

"Jim?"

"Yeah. Might be better for Dean, too," he added.

"How?"

"We know people at the church," Sam said pointedly. As if highlighting all that their father kept taking away from them. "They like it when we visit, and Dean actually seems to like them." Given Dean's complete rejection of all people unrelated to hunting, outside of the rare times he made friends at school, this was saying something.

"Bobby's is closer," John said gruffly.

"You just want what's best for you. If anything happened, Jim's closer to a hospital than Bobby, Jim's closer to food, he's got a home that's not filled with demon stuff, he's got more than just a house and some junk cars." Sam loved Bobby, loved Bobby's house. Did not change that Jim would be the better choice. "He's got actual beds for us, stuff to do at the church, even if we're not religious, I mean even Dean'll do the youth group stuff…" Dean hated church. He'd never say why, but he did. Sam knew it. But for Jim's sake Dean participated in the things Jim had to. Such as youth group, or church. If Jim had to go, Dean and Sam had to go. "I miss my friends, and I bet Dean does, too, bad enough we had to lose Lily and Pete," Sam added miserably. That was going to hurt for a while. Especially Dean.

Sam wasn't sure how much more Dean could take, and would rather be around more distractions, and more people who were likely to get his brother out of the funk he'd been in since they'd left. And it wasn't like Bobby was someone who was likely to sit Dean down and talk to him. Bobby tended to let things be more. Not like it was bad thing, it let Dean heal on his own time, but Jim was better at getting things out of both him and Dean. And if nothing else, Sam could talk to him and try to get some of this weight off his chest. The anger at his father, the resentment, too. He needed some forgiveness and Jim was always good at making him feel forgiven. Sam liked church, he liked the idea of someone watching over him, someone other than Dean and his father. Not that Dean wasn't good enough, but Dean wasn't all seeing or all knowing. And he certainly didn't like talking about things, and didn't like listening to things, either. Outside of orders, it seemed.

John sighed, "We're making a stop at Bobby's, there's a hunt there, and then I'll take you both to Pastor Jim's."

Sam sighed, glad when they finally reached the shithole they were staying in. John dumped Dean onto his bed rather unceremoniously, and he stared at Sam until he got the hint and left the room.

"Dean, wake up son."

"What?" Dean asked, starting to sit up before he got dizzy and ended up right back on the bed. "How'd we get back here?" he asked, only slightly slurring his words. His lip and chin were lightly coated with traces of blood. As it had dried it had mostly flaked off. Rubbing at his face a little before knuckling his eye, he stared at his father. "What?" he repeated, tone borderline annoyed. He rubbed absently at his knees, before yanking up the leg of his sweatpants and stared at his knees. They were a little scraped up, but there wasn't much in the way of blood, but there were swollen bruises raising up on his kneecaps. It would hurt to walk for a day or two, or at least until he got used to the pain. One or the other, it wasn't like more pain was going to change anything. Apparently he was still throwing up blood. He'd kind of hoping it'd stopped already. Although it wasn't like the stitches…he still felt horrible. Still had trouble moving around. Chrissakes Sam had to help him get his shirt on. Whatever, it'd be fine. It always was. And if they went to Jim's, Dean was sure he'd heard Jim's name when he'd been half passed out, he could ask for some medical attention without feeling guilty. Considering Jim had made him promise to tell the truth about being hurt. And it felt really wrong to lie to a preacher, forget break a promise.

Besides, if he didn't say something Sam would, and then he'd have to face Jim's disappointment, which was worse than his father's anger. Anger he could handle, disappointment? Not so much. It was so much worse than anything else he could imagine. Then again, he never seemed to do anything right anyway, so why try to start now?

"Dean?"

"Yeah?"

"You still with me here buddy?"

"Yeah Dad," he sounded almost impatient, causing John to frown.

"I said you up for school today?"

Dean looked at him, half in shock.

"Sam doesn't want to go, and I figure if you didn't either, you could babysit the little pain in the ass."

"Yeah, I'll stay. Not like I enjoy going anyway," he said dryly. He ignored his father's frown. It wasn't a big deal, they moved schools so many times he had little to no use for them anymore, and if John hadn't threatened so many different forms of punishment, Dean would have dropped out, or skipped classes. But after John had carried out two of his various threats, Dean had stopped skipping. Or had been more careful about it so no one tried to call 'home'. Or better yet, he waited until John was long gone on a hunt, and was completely out of reach. The invention of cell phones really put a crimp in Dean's social life, but thank god the reception was crappy while he was still in school.

When John finally exited the room, Sam came back in, looking at his brother in concern. "You okay?" he asked.

"I'm always fine, Sam."

"You weren't," Sam said softly. "You were hurt bad, Dean. You fell, you don't look fine. There's blood on your face, and you threw up blood after you dry heaved."

Staring at his brother, Dean wondered when the hell Sammy had decided to start being perceptive.

"You…" Sam wanted to say 'you cried, you know that? Cry in your sleep, too, know that?' "You don't look good, and you just passed out!" he argued.

"Dude, stop trying to mother me, alright? I can take care of myself!"

"Yeah, clearly!" Sam bit off.

"Leave me alone, just go!" Dean snapped. Sam gave him one hurt glance before shooting off. John saw Sam blow past him, slamming the front door before probably running off to sulk.

"What the hell did you say to him?" John said bursting into Dean's room, before noting the tears running over his eldest's cheeks. "Dean…" he said softly, sitting on the edge of the bed and wrapping an arm around his boy's shoulders. It wasn't like he could fix this.

"Don't touch me," Dean said softly, standing up and wrapping his arms around his middle, remembering. "You don't know what it's like, you and Sam, you both act like there's something wrong with me…and you have no clue what it's like," he bit off. "Just act like if you push me hard enough I'll forget, or get over it, or get better, or whatever stupid thing you've managed to convince yourself is your goal. You don't give a damn about me. You just want to make yourself feel better, tell yourself all you want it's about me, and it's always about you. Just like this time. All about you. Thanks Dad," he said bitterly. "You've done a damn good job screwing this all to hell."

John sat there, waiting. It seemed like Dean was done. "Dean, it's not like I'm going to pretend I understand what it feels like, but a lot of people get hurt, and he could have killed you," he started, before Dean cut him off sharply.

"Oh, yeah? Like you'd be able to say that if you had a clue! Anyone ever nail your hands to a table? Or press...press…up against you? You know what that's like? Knowing that it's just a matter of time before it's inside you, instead of against you? Huh? How dare you tell me that being dead would be worse! Ever have a screwdriver pushed into your leg? Don't think so. Some guy…some guy grate a saw against your thighs? Kick you so hard you pissed yourself? Go to hell," Dean said, before storming unsteadily out of the house.

John sat there, and dragged his hand across his face. Running a hand through his hair, he let it rest on the back of his neck, both his sons out of the house. Perhaps Jim's place was the best bet, especially if Dean was going to act like that. Not that John blamed him. It wasn't like he knew what it felt like. The knife cuts, sure, he'd been clawed enough to know that he'd felt worse than that razor blade across his skin. But, no, he didn't know what Dean had gone through. And he didn't know if he could have held on the way Dean had, he was pretty sure he would have broken, and Dean hadn't. Not all the way, at least. "God," he whispered softly, pressing a hand to his forehead, rubbing at his temples with his middle finger and thumb.

Sam came back inside first, Dean a few minutes after, clearly they hadn't spoken to each other, and neither one was aware of the other. John saw Dean come back in. "Dean," he said quietly, "I called Jim, he'll come pick you up, and I'll drop Sam off in a few days, give you some time to cool down. You're right, we don't understand, but it's not like it's fair to take it out on Sam, either." He said it softly, tried to let Dean know he wasn't being punished.

"So what you're getting rid of me now!? Gonna let me wait three days again for you to come?" Dean's voice cracked. "Just…just gonna leave me there, hope that I'm okay when you finally get there, didn't work so great last time, did it Dad?"

Then John realized Dean wanted him to get angry, so that he could keep shouting and not have to feel bad about it. So he could try to deal with this. "Dean," he wasn't going to get mad at him. "Yell at me all you want, it's not going to change anything. I'm sorry," he watched Dean's face carefully. "I'm sorry I wasn't there in time, I'm sorry I couldn't make the pain stop, and I'm sorry that I can't make this pain stop, I'm sorry I can't stop the nightmares, and I'm sorry that you don't think I love you, but you're not letting me fix that."

Dean bit down on his lip, staring at his father, "I hate you." Seeming shocked at his own words, Dean decided to plow on, and John just let him. "Try to make me look like the ass? If you'd just recognized him, he sure as hell knew who you were! Or hell, if you'd just done what you always do, he would have been dead!"

"I don't kill people!" John snapped.

"Just monsters, right? I know you killed Amos, I know you burned his house down after you shot him in the knee! Salt and burned the area again, too! Seems to me like you kill people!"

"You prefer I let him live?" John asked, finally rising to the bait.

"No, I don't!" Dean half screamed, and John could see he was shaking, trying to hold the tears in. He walked over, pulling Dean into a tight hug before his son could move away. Dean worked his arms free, trying to push away. "Don't touch me! Get the hell off!"

John let him push away. "You think this is the way to fix things?"

"It's how you fix things, right?" Dean glared, "Just make things worse all the time? 'Cause y'know, it's worked so well for you, figured I'd give it a shot."

That was when John almost hit him. But he stopped himself, and Dean knew.

"Go'n, do it. See who'll win this one."

"Dean, I could knock you over without trying. You're still hurt."

"So that's why you're pushing me so hard? If you can hurt me worse, maybe I'll get better? Reverse psychology on injuries, dunno if they understand, Dad," he snapped, turning 'dad' into the vilest swearword John had heard in a long time.

"Try and take me," John told him, Dean needed something to hit. "Go ahead, you think you're so damn amazing, try it. I'll even give you a free shot." He hated this, hated that Dean couldn't just act like he had when he was younger, that a hug wouldn't even begin to fix things. He'd never felt so shocked in his life when Dean broke down instead of flying at him. "Dean," he said quietly, and his son looked up, eyes full of tears.

"I don't hate you," he said thickly, apologizing for the entire mess with those four words.

"I know," and he pulled Dean into a hug, and this time he wasn't rejected. They stood for a long time, until Dean's legs started to shake and John noticed. "C'mon, sit down, 'bout time you'n Sam ate something, don't you think?"

Dean was still snuffling a little and rubbing at his eyes. "When's Jim coming?"

"However long it takes him to drive. Bobby's closer, but Sam wanted to go to Jim's."

"I'm fine with Bobby's."

"Too late now, dude. And I wasn't asking, Sam's right, Jim's is the best place for you two right now." He wasn't much of a cook, but he did his best. Sandwiches were pretty hard to ruin. "Sam!" he called, somewhat surprised that his youngest appeared without a fight. His eyes were a little red, and John knew that he wasn't the only one Dean had hurt that day.

When Jim finally showed up, John wasn't sure who was most relieved, him or Dean. Dean had already stuffed his duffle with everything he owned, and had been sitting outside waiting for the past hour. He practically ran to the car, not even giving Jim a chance to get out or pop the trunk before he was behind the car waiting. Jim obliged him by getting out, and walking to the back using his key to open it, rather than the lever upfront. "You really think I'm going to leave without saying anything to your dad or Sam?"

"No," Dean said quietly. "Doesn't mean I want to say anything to them," he added bitterly.

"You realize we're going to have to talk, eventually, right? Before John drops Sam off?"

"Doesn't mean I have to look forward to it."

Jim sighed a little, gripping Dean's shoulder before he went inside, and talked with John. "He okay?"

"He will be," but what John meant was 'I hope so.' And Jim could hear it in his voice. He nodded a little.

"Hey Sam," Jim smiled warmly. "See you in a few days right? I'll let Meredith know she has to start baking cookies, although you gotta promise to actually eat veggies, too," he laughed. Dean was the pain in the butt about food, Sam was pretty happy to eat anything not from a can or a diner. Sam grinned back, relieved. Jim would fix things. He always did. He nodded, and Jim understood, and held out an arm, Sam flung himself into the hug, needing it badly. It wasn't something he was going to get from his father, and they all knew it. Jim lightly patted Sam's back, before ruffling his hair. "Believe it or not, Dean does say goodbye," he told them, before gently pulling away from Sam. He looked at John, "Take care," he said softly, before heading back to the car; Dean was already in the passenger seat and had buckled his seatbelt without a fuss.

"We leaving now?"

"Yeah, we're leaving. Hope you already ate 'cause we're not stopping until it gets dark."

"Yeah, I ate."

"You wanna tell me why Sam looks like he's been crying?"

Dean flashed Jim a guilty look, and then looked down at his knees. "Sam said some stuff, and I just wanted him to stop, didn't figure he was gonna cry," Dean mumbled. Jim nodded.

"Yeah? Looks like you shook your dad up good, too." Easiest way to get Dean to talk was to make him defend himself. Not that he was ever that far in the wrong, and they both knew it, since Jim usually told him so. Every once in a while Dean did deserve being snapped at or told he was in the wrong, but most times he was just reacting.

"He said some stuff, too."

"You wanna tell me what kind of stuff?"

"Not really."

"Well I'm guessing that he didn't deserve whatever you said, then."

"He didn't tell you?" Dean asked, surprised.

"Told him I'd rather hear it from you. Besides, I don't think he wanted to talk about it any more than you do." He watched Dean stared out the window for a while, and Jim knew he was mulling it over.

"Dad tried to act like he understood," Dean said about half an hour later.

"And Sam?"

"Tried to act like he could take care of me, or fix it or something stupid."

"Yeah, so you punished him for loving you?" Jim knew what he was doing, and in some ways he needed to get Dean to forgive Sam, and then maybe he could forgive his father.

"He was mad at me, like it was my fault I'm not better, or that…I just, it's not…"

"It's not your fault, and Sam doesn't think it is, either. He's just as scared as you are- No, let me finish," Jim told Dean when he opened his mouth to protest. "He's scared he's losing you, scared that you're not getting better, and that you won't, because he doesn't understand. Sam's young enough to know he can't empathize with you, and he's not trying to. He knows he doesn't know enough about any of what you went through, other than it hurt. And that you're not yourself, and that he's angry, too. Your dad? He's gone through hell, Dean, and sometimes adults figure that since they've experienced more than kids have, that they can understand anything. Other times they're so scared they try to tell themselves they understand so that they can deal with it."

Dean was silent for several more hours, just mulling it over. He knew better than to swear in front of Pastor Jim, and he wasn't about to, but he was trying to figure out how to say what he needed to without swearing. And it was hard. "Dad…he can't…"

Jim glanced at him, before pulling into the shoulder of the road. He stayed quiet, letting Dean work it out. However long it took.

"You know what that guy did to me?" Dean asked quietly, lips going flat against his teeth as he pressed them together to stop from crying. "You have any idea?"

"I know he tortured you, I know he threw something on you that burned your skin, I know that you're going to have scars on your palms the rest of your life, I know that he probably used the entire contents of a tool box to see how much he could make you hurt. I know that you didn't get any water, or food. I know he broke your skull, and that everything he's done has been giving you nightmares so you can't sleep. Know he kicked you, didn't let you anywhere near a bathroom, and probably poisoned you with something, since the doctors wanted to know if you did any drugs."

Dean stared at him. "My dad know all that, too?"

"We put it together, between the two of us. John also told me something I didn't mention. You want to tell me?"

"Not really."

"That's the part you have the nightmares about the most, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Guess so."

"I'd like to say it'll get better, but I don't know. I think it will, Dean. Most people recover, maybe not all the way, but they do. Things get better. I think once your body heals, it'll get easier. And I think once you forgive your dad, it'll be easier, too."

"You always tell me to forgive people, but it never does me any good."

"That's because you're not really forgiving them," Jim pointed out. Dean flushed a little. "And it's hard, I'm not telling you any of this is easy. We'll talk more later, okay?" He waited until Dean nodded, and lightly patted his knee. "It'll get better. Things always do."

Dean fell asleep as they drove, not stirring except when the car stopped, Jim having pulled into a parking lot near a diner. Dean woke up and looked around, dazed.

"I know, another diner. You must be so sick of these," he smiled. Dean nodded, and then shrugged. Jim chuckled quietly, before getting out of the car, Dean a few steps behind him. "I figure we'll see if we can get it go, since I'd rather get back as soon as possible, if you're okay with that?" He saw Dean nod, and smiled. They grabbed some food, and Dean, as always, was shocked to know that the money was real, and not stolen. It always seemed so strange. The rest of the drive passed without incident, and Dean went back to sleep.

Finally arriving, Dean didn't even stir, and Jim lifted him out of the car and carried him inside, settling him in the guest room of the small house. There were beds in the church for the nights people either stayed, or people came seeking refuge, and Dean had slept in one of those beds more times than he could count. He'd never actually been inside Jim's house, he didn't think. At least he didn't remember, if he had.

Jim sat down in a chair after settling Dean on the bed, pulling a blanket over him so he'd stay warm and making sure the shades were closed to keep the sun out. He had no idea when the last time was that Dean had truly slept, and he hoped that being far away from where it all went down would help with that. Running his hands over his face and then through his hair, he sighed, wondering how on earth these things always seemed to happen to the people who least deserved them. Just once it would be nice if someone really bad had something crappy happen to them. Not some fourteen year old boy who'd already lost his mother, and was slowly losing his father. Had given up every friend he'd made, and was probably losing himself to the same vendetta that was slowly killing his father. He prayed for a long time, he knew better than to ask for understanding, instead he asked for protection, and comfort, and healing. Especially healing of the mind and soul, the body would heal in its own time with or without God's help. He asked God to watch over John and Sam, and to grant full and true rest for all of them before he went to bed.

Dean woke up in a state of confusion. The room he found himself in was nice enough, no water stains on the ceiling, no cheap wallpaper curling off the wall, no horrible decorations or especially scary carpet-stains. Just a normal room, a comfortable bed, a light blue knit blanket tossed over his legs –since he'd pushed most of it off himself sitting up- plain white curtains pulled over the kind of shades that go up and aren't separate pieces of plastic. The carpet was a green color, and it looked soft. Not like the shag carpet in some motels where you stepped on it barefoot and could feel years of god only knew what under your feet buried in the carpeting. Or the kind of carpet that was so matted down from time it felt like cement, only cement was more forgiving if you fell on it. There was even a nightstand of a light wood with a dullish gloss so that it wasn't obnoxiously shiny. Dean saw that his duffel was next to it on the floor. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he quickly took his shoes off, feeling almost sacrilegious. Especially when he noticed the simple cross over the door, and took his socks off, too, desperate to feel real carpeting under his feet. Unsure if Jim was awake Dean was as quiet as his father had trained him to be, and noted there was salt in the scoop of the window where when you shut it, the window settled down into. He smiled, figuring Jim had worked hard on figuring out a way to hide the salt so no one asked questions without having to give up on having it. He half wondered if the metal strip separating the carpet inside the room from the carpeting in the hall had salt underneath it. Opening the door, he noted it didn't creak, and the floor didn't seem to much, either. Cement instead of wood underneath the carpet pads? In the hallway, he twisted back and realized that the walls in the room were a faint blue, while the hallway was just plain white.

After a much needed trip to the bathroom, he prowled the house, feeling strangely out of place. For one, what on earth was Jim doing in a place like this? It didn't seem to fit with the acetic vision Dean had of the man, given how his office in the church looked. And it really didn't match up with the room full of weapons down in the lower floor of the church. Grinning a little, he wondered where Jim's weapons cache was in the house. The kitchen was small, again with both curtains and shades. Dean curiously opened the shades in the kitchen, just to see outside. Not much to see, just some grass, some weeds, and a few more houses scattered around. He let the shade down quietly. The small table, seating two, was in front of the window, another door behind the table, and countertops behind the other end. Correctly guessing the door led to the washroom, Dean noted the cheap countertops. Probably what came with the house, it was that plasticy stuff. All the same it was clean, and not stained. A kind of beige-like color, he figured. The walls had some sort of tint to them, but Dean wasn't sure because of how dark the room was. Continuing his prowl, he realized that the wall the stove and microwave was on, opposite the counter, was open on both sides, so he could go in a complete circle without opening anything. There was a sort of weird space between the kitchen and another door. The space contained a sliding glass door a matter of feet from where the counter stopped. He felt the change from linoleum to wood under the pads of his feet, and glanced at another small table. Probably could stuff four people if you really needed to. This one had a tablecloth, and Dean knew that Jim probably never ever used it to eat unless he was forced to. Taking a left, rather than seeing if the door in front of him led to the garage, assuming Jim had one, he saw a couch, felt different carpeting than the kind in the hall and bedroom –it was softer, and saw a T.V. in front of an overstuffed chair. He grinned, noting the ottoman, or foot rest, as he'd consider it, in front of the chair. The T.V. wasn't anything special, but Dean did notice the cable box, and shook his head a little. He hadn't expected that.

There was another large window, and Dean figured he was seeing the front of the house, given there was a normal wood door with the funny little windows at the top. Dean had never understood that, it seemed dangerous to him. Better to have a small peep-hole. Like in the motels. Not that he really wanted to live in one. The wall on the same side as what he was guessing was the garage door had a fireplace, and a mantle above it. Nothing on the mantle, and the fireplace didn't look used. In fact as he poked around in the room he noticed there was a lot of dust…clearly Jim didn't really spend a lot of time in that house. There was a cross on the same wall that housed the stove on the other side, a simple wooden one, well, not quite simple, it had a slight flare to it, but Dean had to admit it was elegant. A small table with a lamp sat near the window, a chair on either side, probably not as comfortable as the one in front of the television, but not cheap wood or plastic chairs, at least. The house was small, the 'tour' taking well under ten minutes. Heading back down the hall, he noticed there was a room with the door open, and curiously peered inside. Bookshelf. And yet another window. Did Jim realize that his house was a danger? Then again the man never really stayed there, did he? But, bookshelves and a closet. Probably was supposed to be a bedroom, not that Dean gave a damn. The bathroom door, this room, and then another shut door seemed to alternate down the hall, until at the very end was the room Dean had come from. Yawning, he re-entered it, shucked his jeans off, and crawled under the covers, falling asleep again quickly.

_want more? review. _


	12. Chapter 11

This Chapter goes up solely for Tech4ever, or whatever your username is, I'm sorry I'm tired, and...finals, and...I have no brain left. Thanks to Mish for the beta. I give up on this story. Completely. So here pretend this is the end. I'm done.

**Chapter 11**

The smell of breakfast woke Dean a few hours later. He didn't realize that his exploration of the house had taken place around dawn, and that it was currently a more reasonable hour. Say, ten in the morning, rather than five. Tugging his jeans back on, he didn't bother to touch his bag, figuring they'd be heading to the church anyway, and he could shower and change there. There were the facilities for it in the bathrooms. Dean had asked why, a long time ago, and Jim said he figured it was so that people could clean up there and stay overnight. Same as they did now. It was a good enough answer that Dean'd never thought about it again, other than to wonder when would be a good time to take advantage of the facilities. Whatever Jim was cooking, it wasn't from a mix. When he padded quietly into the kitchen, he was surprised to know that the smell was bacon, and that there were pancakes. Pancakes. Real ones. No boxes in sight. Just some vanilla flavoring on the counter top, and a bag of blueberries that clearly hadn't been opened yet. Dean figured Jim was wondering if he wanted them in the pancakes, and shook his head a little when the pastor looked at him. It was fine, he didn't want to be adding to Jim's workload. He owed Jim, not the other way around.

Jim laughed, "Probably a good choice, I found those in my freezer today, and I don't remember buying them." He waved the spatula he was using to free pancakes from the pan he was cooking them in, since there's no rule about what pancakes have to be cooked in. Dean had used a skillet before. He had no idea what a griddle looked like, and figured what man would? Skillets were acceptable methods of making breakfast foods. Y'know, except waffles. Bacon was in a smaller frying pan. If there was a difference between the two, Dean figured there was, but wasn't sure. Either way, there was food. Real food, from a store. Like, a grocery store, not a gas station.

"Hey, you mind rinsing the plates off? I have no idea if they're covered in dust like everything else," he sighed.

Dean nodded, surprised at his own enthusiasm. Jim jerked his head at the appropriate cabinet, and Dean obliged by finding two plates of what looked like about the right size for some pancakes and bacon, before rinsing them in the sink and drying them. Looking around in the drawers, Dean also managed to find forks, figuring if Jim made the pancakes right, a knife would be an insult. "Napkins?" Dean could see syrup, and knew from living with Sam that syrup was a dangerous tool in the hands of the unwary.

"Pantry, middle shelf…I think."

"You think?" Dean teased, shaking his head, green eyes lighting up to match Jim's self deprecating smile. "God, you don't live here at all, do you?"

"Sometimes. If I can get away from work," Jim argued. But he was still smiling. Dean just shook his head again, trying to keep his face straight, and he couldn't do it. The kitchen was filled with laughter and good natured teasing all the way through breakfast, and the dishes were washed without even creating a pause in the banter. Dean knew why they hadn't gone to Bobby's. Here he could feel like a normal kid, at Bobby's surrounded by all sorts of books about the supernatural, all the markings on the walls, it wasn't exactly like a normal life. And right then, he desperately needed to feel normal. Even if he still hurt, and his undershirt was spotted with blood, and he had a feeling his jeans, if he turned them inside out, would have splotches of red on them, too. His chest hurt, and he knew he wouldn't be able to hide anything from Jim. And it felt good. Felt good having eaten, and having been treated like he mattered. Not that Dean would trade Jim for his father, not for all the world, but sometimes it was nice to feel like a son.

"C'mon, get your gear together," Jim said a few hours later. Dean nodded, not that it was hard to go pick up his duffel bag and cart it back. Jim grabbed it, and before Dean could even open his mouth to protest, Jim gave him a look. "You're limping, I can see you're bleeding through your clothes, and I know you're not feeling well. In fact, if you can even manage to stay awake through lunch I'll be impressed."

Dean did his best to glare, but it was half-hearted, and he knew he was too tired to care. And Jim was right. Jim was almost always right. Sometimes Dean hated him for that. But other times he was so glad that Jim was paying attention. Especially when it came to Sammy. Once back in the car, Dean was half passed out before they even managed to pull out of the drive.

"You realize that I'm taking you to a hospital later, right?"

"Yeah," Dean mumbled hazily, snugging his body closer to the passenger door, head against the rounded part just under the window, and was out cold.

Jim watched him for a matter of seconds before returning his attention to the road. Last thing he needed was to get them hit by some idiot driver. There ere more than enough of them. Dean made a few distressed noises in his sleep, but nothing like what had woken Sam so many nights. Jim glanced at him in concern, but figured they could talk in the church. Dean always seemed more receptive in the church. Maybe because he didn't like it, and was threatened, or maybe because he felt safer than he'd care to admit. Jim was fairly sure it was the latter. For one, most supernatural beings couldn't cross hallowed ground, which had to be comforting, and for another, even if Dean didn't believe in God, he had to believe in something or else Holy Water wouldn't have any effect on demons. Something had to give it power. And Dean knew it, whether he'd admit it or not.

Grabbing Dean's duffel from the back seat when they got to the church, he didn't bother to wake Dean up, figuring he could dump the bag in the dormitory styled room. It wasn't exactly like Dean wanted to be in the Pastor's quarters. Mainly because it was Jim's room, and Dean kind of seemed to have some sort of territorial thing where he avoided rooms that weren't his. Bobby knew that if the room wasn't 'public property' Dean wouldn't go in. Sam would be curious enough to go for it, but Dean wouldn't. He was always just uncomfortable. Not his place. When he got back to the car, Dean was just starting to wake up, and Jim noted the fear in Dean's face before he reached the car and rapped on the window. Dean startled, and then flushed a little before pushing the door open and getting out. He missed the creak of the Impala's door, but he knew he'd be trapped in the car soon enough, longing to get out before he tried to kill Sam to make him shut up. Not that he would admit to feeling like that, but sometimes after a good twelve hours on the road trapped in a car, Dean was ready to open the door and jump out and hope that he didn't break anything in making his escape.

Following Jim into the church, he shot his customary glance at the cross behind the pulpit, silently cursing God, and then looking around as if waiting for retribution. Jim was used to this as a matter of course. Leading Dean into the sleeping area, "Go'n, get some rest. You can shower before I take you to the hospital, or you can wait. But, for now, get some sleep. I have more paperwork to catch up, and I'm sure millions of phone messages," he grimaced, and ran a hand through his brown hair, starting to get the slightest touches of grey. Dean nodded, too tired to protest, and barely remembered to work his shoes off before flopping onto one of the beds. Generally they were now used for church overnight activities, when before they would have been for the priests and other necessary church personnel. It was an old Catholic church, even if Jim wasn't Catholic.

He slept well enough, waking up when he got an incredibly bad feeling, looking up at the small window, a shiver of pure unadulterated terror ran through him as he saw Amos' face staring at him through the glass. He stumbled out of the room so fast he caught his shoulder on the doorframe. Hissing in pain, he felt one of the various cuts split open, and felt the warm blood spreading down his sleeve and arm. He almost ran into Jim in his search.

Catching Dean by the shoulders, Jim looked at him, "You okay?" then he looked at Dean's arm, pulling away a hand coated in blood. He made a face, and Dean flinched. Jim caught the look. "I'm worried about you, not mad at you," Jim told him calmingly. "Why on earth are you running around anyway?"  
Dean's face was so white and scared, he was shaking, then shook his head. "Nothing. It's nothing."

"Dean, I know I'm older than you, but it doesn't mean I'm an idiot."

"I…I know that!" his voice cracked slightly. "I…" he shrugged, forcing a watery smile. "I…I thought I saw Amos, through the window. I woke up, and I saw him, just…"

Jim wrapped an arm around Dean's shoulders in a one armed hug, before Dean shocked him by turning it into a full hug and pressing his face against the black shirt Jim wore. They'd had a running joke about Dean's rejection of physical comfort for the longest time. Bobby had noticed the same thing. Surprised to feel Dean shaking against him, Jim pulled back the slightest bit, to see if he was crying. No, just scared. Placing his free hand gently on Dean's head to hold him closer and let him know it was okay, Jim stood there until Dean hauled in a shuddering breath and pulled back.

"Sorry," he said.

"It's fine," Jim replied. "Always is, always will be." Then he glanced at Dean. "Part of it's in the job description. Then, I just like you, so I don't have to suffer through it," he teased. "C'mon, you're bleeding pretty bad. And I'd rather just have you looked at by a doctor." God only knew what stupid thing John had done to fight back the fear. Either way there was no chance it hadn't hurt Dean. "I'll grab your duffel," he offered. "Any weapons I should know about to take out?"

"No, already stuffed 'em under the bed like usual," he said. There was a small chest under each bed for clothing and other personal items for whoever was staying.

"Why don't you grab the keys and go get into the car," Jim offered. Dean started to turn white again, and Jim realized he still wasn't over the shock he'd gotten. "Or wait right here for me, better yet sit down in a pew until I get back, don't think you should be on your feet any more than you have to be." He waited until Dean nodded weakly. When he returned Dean stood up.

"I…a…just figured…I…threw up blood a…" he flushed. "Not here, probably better now," he mumbled, but he'd made a promise, and he'd be damned if he didn't keep it.

"I'll take care of it," he said quietly, "And it's a good thing you told me."

"It was just the once," Dean added, sounding so eager to please Jim frowned.

"And all the same, it doesn't seem like something to forget about," he pointed out, walking towards the doors, waiting until Dean followed. "Anything else you need to tell me?"

"No. Not that I know of," he added hastily when Jim looked at him. "You can already tell the stitches didn't hold up."

Jim nodded a little, grinning some.

When they reached the hospital, Jim knew full well that there was no appointment, but given the amount of blood Dean was losing, Jim had found a rag in the car, thankfully clean, and had been holding it tightly to Dean's shoulder, despite his vehement protests that he could do it himself, and that Jim was hurting him. He was able to partially staunch the blood flow.

When he was able to talk to a nurse, Jim told her quietly that she might want to go with the more patient nurses and doctors, if they needed one, and that male doctors weren't going to be the safest bet for Dean. She frowned, and he told her frankly that the injuries had been inflicted by a man who had decided to get back at John by taking his eldest son. It hadn't been a good experience, and he was liable to be jumpy around strange men for a while. He didn't add the fact that Dean had almost been raped. It wasn't exactly something that he figured Dean would appreciate being shared, and since they were basically just going to fix stitches, not do a mental eval it shouldn't matter. Hopefully. Otherwise Jim would tell them a lot more of what happened.

Dean was taken, refusing the wheelchair point blank, just about to throw a fit, and the nurse Jim talked to caught his eye, silently agreeing that the more patient nurses were likely to be the best bet. Ones that weren't easily phased, either. Considering Dean didn't look like he was going to be easy to deal with. Jim followed, catching Dean's arm to support him, since he was going to put up a fuss. Leaning in, "They're trying to help you, not kill you," he told Dean gently. "And I'm going to tell them you need some ice, the swelling's not going down much," he said, and Dean knew he meant the place on his forehead where his skull had not only fractured, but he'd had to have stitches. That were still there. The back of his head still ached, and he had a feeling that was still swollen, too. He knew plenty of other places that were still swollen. And painful. Especially places where he'd been cut, or hit more than once or twice. His back was a mess of painful bruises. Mainly from being belted with the actual buckle. It was a huge part of why Dean had needed Sam's help with his shirt.

The nurse handed Dean what he knew was one of those damned hospital gowns. Why couldn't they have the pajama ones? Then again he knew that they actually needed to be able to get to the various stitches, and he really resented that. But Jim was right, and he was determined to not be as difficult as usual. It wasn't like it made anything any easier. And he didn't want the people with the sharp instruments to be angry with him. That was never a good idea, really. Looking at Jim, once the nurse left, he turned a dark red again. "I…"

"You want me to wait in the hallway."

"Yeah, but…"

"But?"

"I…can't get my shirt off," he mumbled, having already slipped off the flannel over shirt, but the grey tee wasn't something he could get off easily. Especially since he was already bleeding. The nurse had temporarily wrapped it so that he wouldn't bleed out until they could get him stitched up. Jim nodded, face filling with compassion as he helped Dean work the shirt off, making sure it didn't catch on any stitches, along with making sure Dean didn't tear any trying to get it off. Jim had to carefully school his face not to let on how shocked he was at how little Dean had healed in the past few weeks. Not letting the boy see his face, "I'll let you change the rest of the way."

"I hate these things," he pouted, holding up the gown, glaring at it.

"You rather be naked?"

"Not really."

"There you go, then," Jim laughed, leaving the room and shutting the door after making sure it didn't lock. Jim gave him a bit of time, not sure how long it would take. Considering if Dean's chest had looked that bad, god only knew how much it had to hurt to move his legs. It wasn't like Jim could forget the cuts and punctures turning soft flesh into Swiss cheese. He gave an involuntary shudder. It wasn't hard to close his eyes and remember the blood ringing the bathtub, how limp Dean had been, barely able to speak past swollen and cut lips. His face was still pretty battered, giving him a slightly mottled look. Jim wasn't sure when Dean was going to really starting looking the way he had before, even his eyes were different. They looked so much older, dimmer. Jim was forcibly reminded of John. He hoped the changes were only temporary, he was too young to look that empty. Knocking on the door, Dean said something that sounded like 'come in' and Jim settled himself in one of the chairs in the room.

"You gonna be okay?"

"Once they fix this," Dean muttered, pointing at his shoulder. "It hurts," he added, doing his best to sound nonchalant, but Jim could see the pain in his face.

"Not just your shoulder," he pointed out, before picking up a magazine, and looking at the date. "What the…? This is like a friggin' time capsule in here," he told Dean, pointing at the selection. It elicited a weak chuckle.

"Told you, these places are portals into hell."

"Yeah, and you were seven."

"So I've been smarter than you for a long time," Dean grinned.

"Whatever gets you through the night," Jim said fondly before flicking a balled up piece of paper at Dean.

"Hey what're you doing? Cheap shot, no fair!" He looked around for ammunition, and only found those crappy thin pillows and flung it at Jim with his 'good' arm. Jim caught it, considering it at least had come in his direction. Laughing a little, he watched Dean shift on the paper covering the 'bed' thing hearing it crinkle. He was looking for the paper thrown at him earlier. He knew Jim wasn't going to throw the pillow back at him, since it would probably hurt.

When the nurse walked back in, Dean noticed that her nametag read Juliette. Not Juliet like in Shakespeare, but Juliette. He wondered if she said the 'te' part. When she introduced herself, she did say Juliette, with the ettah and everything. He smiled a little. She was young, he would mark her in her thirties. Which given the nurses he'd seen was really young. He didn't really say anything, given he felt strangely uncomfortable. Jim glanced at him, quirking a brow. Dean shook his head slightly, he didn't want Jim to leave. Not yet, at least.

"Here, how about you pull that thing off your shoulder?" Juliette suggested lightly. Dean met her eyes, weighing her up, and decided that he could trust her. Something about how earnest her eyes were. That and her eyes were blue. Just like his mom's. Carefully shrugging his shoulder out of the wide neck, she looked at him, before lightly pulling it down and away. It still covered him easily from the end of his ribcage down, and he'd put his sweatshirt over his legs anyway. She had a tray of things used to suture up his shoulder, and he glanced at it nervously. But he was used to this. Usually without the blessing of anesthetic. "Looks like you got into a heck of a fight," she said, even though she knew that wasn't the truth, and he knew it, too.

"Yeah, he beat the crap out of me," Dean said, looking at Jim rather than his arm. Trying to ignore the strange tug of his skin as she closed the wound.

"This's pretty nasty," she told him softly, before she finished, and then lightly moved his arm, looking at the damage done to the length of it. "Didn't do this to yourself?" she asked.

He blanched. "No," he said, looking so shocked at the idea that she knew he wasn't lying.

"I have to ask questions like that," she pointed out. "It's part of my job. I'm supposed to ask you about school, your plans for the future, that kind of thing. If you have friends you can talk to, all that stuff. But I figure if you're friends with a pastor, you've got at least some of a church pulling for you, if not for the whole thing, right?"

"Meredith's good to Sam'n me," he admitted. Mostly Sam since he tended to avoid her because of how nice she was. But then again she'd been good to Sam from the start of things, and he respected that. "And there're other people," he added. He hurt. His arm throbbed where it hadn't been treated.

"You realize I've got to check you over, right?" she asked him gently. He nodded resolutely, face whitening, and as he bit down on his lip it started to bleed again. "Don't do that," she scolded, holding gauze to his mouth. "Here, keep a light pressure on that, okay?" Juliette waited until he nodded weakly. Then she looked at him, making sure he met her eyes. "You going to tell me what happened, or do I need to ask Pastor…?"

"Jim Murphy," Jim supplied, unwilling to really butt in, in fact he was hoping he would be able to leave. Not to put Dean in an awkward situation or leave him alone, but he'd rather be out of the way. "And it's up to Dean, not me. I've informed the doctor of all that I'm going to be sharing," he said, standing up and stretching out. "Dean? I'll come back in a few minutes, I'm going to see if there's any coffee or something, okay?" Dean just nodded, since he was busy trying to keep the gauze against his face.

Juliette gently pulled his hand away from his mouth, "Bleeding stopped. Looks like you're healing okay, then, since your blood's still clotting," she told him. He rolled his eyes at her, and she smiled. "Play that game all you want. I know you don't want to be here," she told him.

"Does anyone ever want to be here?"

"When they trust the doctors to make them better, yes, they do."

"So, they want to get sick so they can come in?" he asked sarcastically.

"No, and you know what I mean. When someone's hurt or sick, and they know that someone else can make it better they're happy to let that happen. You gonna fight me the whole way?" she asked, raising an eyebrow. He made a slight face, but shrugged. Then hissed in pain, wishing he hadn't done that.

"I'm going to ask you to lie down, okay? Doesn't look like you're having a lot of luck sitting up." She could see the exhaustion in his posture and the tightness of his face. "You get to pick, you want me to look at your chest or back first?"

By way of answer, Dean relaxed back onto the bed, allowing her to manipulate the stupid gown thing so that she could check him over, lightly pushing on his stomach to check the stitches. "Jim says you had surgery?"

"Pastor Jim," he corrected, and then flushed, feeling like his father. "Yeah. Took a bad fall a while back, doing some hiking," not technically a lie, "and then it got aggravated…"

"Looks like it might be aggravated again. I might have to get a doctor."

"What're you, then?"

"A nurse, and you knew that, too. I don't wear the white coat, remember?" He hissed in pain, wondering why on earth a nurse was doing any of this anyway. Wasn't a check-up the doctor's job?

"Well you're doing your boss' job," he muttered.

"Because my boss is in the ER trying to help cover for a lot of things going on. And because the interns are obnoxious." Gently smoothing his hair back from his forehead, she checked the stitches there, "this looks terrible," she told him. "I'm going to recommend some antibiotics, my job or not, and I'm going to get some ice. Try to get the worst of the swelling down. When did this happen?" she asked.

"A week ago, I think…maybe…" he had no idea. Time had stopped having as much meaning after his head had been slammed into the table the first time.

"Alright," she said, noticing the distress on his face. "You, stay put. Think you can do that?"

"Yeah…guess so. It might be real hard, though."

"Cute," she told him, shaking her head a little. Managing to get ahold of a doctor, Dean was surprised to see _another _woman. Didn't they staff men here? Then again, he wasn't sure he wanted any men anywhere near him unless he knew them. And they hadn't tried to kill him. 'Cause he knew Amos. Didn't mean he wanted him around ever again. Barely able to tolerate the doctor poking at him, even if she was gentle, when she reached his stomach, lightly pressing, he couldn't hold back a groan, or stop his back from arching slightly before he tried to curl around his stomach.

"Great," she muttered, glancing at him. "We've barely started, and we're already going to have to schedule him for surgery…seems like you've played this game a few times," she told him.

White lipped, he nodded, trying not to bite down again. Shutting his eyes tightly for a few seconds, when he opened them again Juliette had found some ice, and was gently settling it under the back of his head and then on his forehead. Looking at her in confusion, his eyes roved the room.

"You passed out for a bit, can't get you into surgery for a while, later today, hopefully, but you may have to wait. The doctor, Doctor Brant, finished her examination while you were out."

Dean turned crimson, and closed his eyes again. "How long?"

"Less than an hour, it's not a big deal. The pain probably got to you. We've got some fluids going to replace the blood you lost, and it's got some mild painkillers in there, and some antibiotics. See if we can make sure you don't get any infections."

"Y'know, I'm getting sick of being felt up by chicks I don't even know," Dean told her, trying to distract himself from what was going on, and what she was saying. "Thought I was doing okay here," he told her. "Y'know, survived all that stuff…"

"What stuff?"

"Can't you see what stuff?" he asked bitterly.

"I can see a lot of puncture wounds and cuts. What burned you?"

"How…" then he realized the skin was still healing, even if the blisters were gone, there were plenty of places that were still red and shiny. "Water. Just water."

"Must have been some hot water."

"No shit Sherlock," he muttered.

"Why don't you call me Juliette?"

"'Cause then I'd have to worry about being here for more than a few hours. First name basis with your basic health provider is never a good thing." As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew he'd said the wrong thing. Normal people knew their doctors' names. Damn it.

"You really don't like us, do you?"

"What? People who stab me with stuff and make me hurt worse than I already did? No, I totally love you guys," he said. Then felt like an ass. All the same, Juliette had been chosen for her patience with people like Dean. Quite frankly he was downright pleasant next to some of the people she'd dealt with. He was just a kid, instead of an adult. And she knew he was terrified.

"You want me to leave you alone?"

"I'm not alone," he corrected, "Pastor Jim's coming back."

"Well until he comes back, you want me here or you want me to leave?"

"Depends, you going to keep asking me a whole bunch of questions?"

"Depends, you ever going to start answering them?"

"Depends on if I feel like it or not."

"What if I told you that things would get a lot better and easier if you would? And that I could help you, and be here for you, if you would just tell me what happened."

"And if I said that I wouldn't be here for long? Just staying until my dad comes and picks me up?"

"Then I'd tell you it would still help, and that it would be safer, right? You might never see me again, and then it would never matter what you said. And that I could give you my phone number, so that if you trusted me, and that you were sick of not sticking around for too long, you'd just be a phone call away from someone. That it would be one less person you'd have to leave behind."

He looked down, staring at his hands, contemplating the scotch tape holding the band-aids against the holes. She lightly held his hand, turning it over.

"What happened here? I need to clean it and re-bandage it," she gently and slowly peeled the tape off his hand. She'd get to the other one.

"Nails. Guess the guy figured it was a great joke about having a savior complex." Then he bit down on his tongue. If he hadn't hurt so badly, he'd be talking a lot less.

"Lucky I've still got plenty of stuff here with me," she told him, wincing sympathetically when she saw his palm, and saw the angry redness of the wound. Cleaning it caused him to whimper, and she gently spread some antibiotic cream over the wounds before bandaging his hand, a loop under his thumb, crossing with a loop above, on the web of index and thumb, to secure it so it slid around less. And would still hold. She'd used gauze pads and then kept them in place with a gauze wrap, figuring it was preferable to less forgiving cloth bandaging. Holding out her hand for his other hand, he placed it in hers without hesitation, and she knew he trusted her not to hurt him. Physically, at least. She was as careful as she could be cleaning out his left hand, since she knew it had hurt the first time. She felt that it was mostly just the sting of the antibiotics rather than any pressure on her part. Since she'd just dripped it over the wound, and done as much as humanely, and safely, possible to avoid touching the wounds.

"Went all the way through, didn't it?"

"Yeah," he gritted his teeth, the muscles in his neck and shoulders tightening as he fought back pain. He'd admit she was gentle, that she wasn't hurting him all that much, but that it was finally starting to overwhelm him again.

"Need me to up the morphine?"

"No, I'm okay," he lied.

"Right," she told him, gently patting his knee, causing him to grimace, "You're doing just fine." Juliette stood and changed the dosage slightly. She didn't want him hazed out on the meds, or anything, but she didn't want him in constant pain, either. She waited until some of the tension left his face. "How bad does it hurt?"

"On a scale of one to ten? Maybe a two," he shrugged. She resisted the urge to poke his stomach, so he'd stop lying.

"Well your scale is warped, so I'm going to guess it's more like a twenty, then, I want you to lie back down, so we can keep ice on your face and head. Maybe the back of your neck, too," she said, looking at him in concern. "Wanna tell me about that?"

"Not really."

"Looks like a handprint on your neck."

"It is. Guess a neck makes great leverage for slamming someone's head into things."

"Guess it would," she told him, "Now lie down." She knew he was just barely willing to comply. Not that she felt she blamed him, really. He was trying to put on a hell of a show, and he wasn't doing too bad. Other than he'd passed out during the examination from pain, and she knew it. When she walked into the hallway to get more ice, she saw Jim. "You can go in, now, you could have a while ago," she said with a slight frown.

"Juliette, is it? I figured if I left you two alone long enough, maybe he'd talk to you at least a little. It's not like he would be able to use me as a buffer." He smiled at her, and walked into the room, wondering if they were going to move Dean to a real bed, or just leave him in the examination room. Then again they were going to drag him off to yet another surgery as soon as the O.R. was open. "See you haven't tried to kill anyone with a scalpel."

"I'm biding my time," Dean said, the pain starting to show through in his voice.

"You should have told me from the start," Jim told him, gently taking his hand, noting the bandaging. He hadn't looked at Dean's hands. If he'd seen the tape…

"I…I didn't…it was nice to just be normal," Dean whispered. Jim sighed, lightly smoothing Dean's hair back. He was grateful that it was growing back where Amos had torn Dean's scalp. The kid looked so much better.

"Dean, you're about as normal as you can be. Hear me out," he said, holding up a hand. "I didn't say your life was normal, I said you are. You care about your father and brother, most kids do, you help out with your sibling, again, pretty normal. Let's see, you still bleed when you get hurt. Pretty human thing to do, huh? Guess that'd be normal. You still feel things. And take stuff really hard, and sing along to the radio and tapes your dad has. Tell me what's not normal about _you._"

"I know…the things I've seen…my…Mom…that's not normal."

"So you're the only kid to ever lose a mom?"

"That's not what I mean!" Dean protested. "And…I just…"

"I know. But sometimes you kind of have to go the other way with these things, and see them for what they are. Okay?"

"I keep trying…"

"Kind of how you keep trying to forgive people?" Jim teased gently. Dean made a slight face, before yawning. "If you fall asleep, I'll be here when you wake up, okay?"

"Yeah…okay," Dean mumbled, startling slightly when Juliette returned with ice that she carefully settled against his head and neck. "S'cold," he complained.

"Well there are a lot of other places that could use ice, too, so take your pick," she told him gently, but he heard the sternness behind it all. She meant her threat.

"'S'good," he told her, there wasn't enough energy left in him to shift, and he knew he was falling asleep, and that he didn't want to, and that was the last thought he had.


	13. Chapter 12

_this is for Mish. Who totally made me feel better without even knowing how shitty my birthday turned out. So...she wanted more this story. And it's really literally the least I can do. _

**Chapter 12 **

Dean woke up to find the room pitch black, except for a slight amount of light filtering through the window. Probably from the streetlights outside, rather than moonlight like in some of the motels and cabins they'd stayed in. Especially since the light had that disgusting yellow-orange haze to it. Dean was forcibly reminded of English class, and Prufrock. Not really a good thing, but still. Shifting, he noticed the ice packs were almost warm, and that Jim was not there. Then again, he had a feeling Jim had been forcibly removed from the room. Well, maybe not guards hauling him away, but close enough. Jim might be in the waiting room, maybe. Glancing at the window when a shadow fell across it, it took everything in Dean not to scream. Staring, he was entirely unaware of the monitors starting to freak out, as he could see the smile through the window, waiting, and watching. And Dean knew that it was just a matter of time, and that the next bed he found himself in would be in a morgue, not a hospital. Hospitals would be no good to him after Amos got a-hold of him again.

Juliette came bursting into the room, wondering what on earth was going on with her patient, as she saw him staring at the window, she looked, half wondering if she'd seen someone in it, before going over to him. "Dean, c'mon, hey, look at me!" she snapped her fingers right in his face and he startled badly.

"Need…Need a phone, I need to call my dad," he told her, one hand gripping the front of her scrubs. His eyes were wide with fear, and she was fairly sure that he had tear tracks down his cheeks.

"Okay, you need to calm down first," she told him, gently pulling his hand away, and holding it.

"No! You don't understand!" His voice raised in pitch and urgency. "Where's Pastor Jim?! I need…I need my dad," he insisted. Looking around, he slipped out of the bed, knocking the ice packs to the ground, and pulling the IV free of his arm, ignoring the blood dribbling down his arm as he made a wobbly break for the door. Juliette caught him easily, forcing him back to the bed, stopping the blood flow, and replacing the IV.

"If you don't calm down, I'm going to sedate you," she told him, catching his jaw so that he had to look at her. "If you can calm yourself down, I will get you a phone, do you understand?"

"You don't understand!" His breathing was fast and shallow, his heart still going a million miles a minute. She wondering what on earth had managed to spook him like that. He'd been calmer earlier, maybe hiding his fear, but he'd been in control of it.

Holding onto his hand, she gently smoothed his hair, "Dean, if I don't understand, help me understand, but if you don't calm down, you're going to hurt yourself," she told him calmly, not letting go.

"You can't," he said, trying to pull away from her in an absentminded sort of way, while still staring nervously at the window. "I have to call my dad, you have to let me call my dad."

"I don't have to let you do anything," Juliette said calmly, tempted to administer a mild sedative. "If you don't tell me what's wrong, I'm not going to let you call anyone."

"He's back, okay? He's back and he's going to kill me, so let my call my dad!" he said the last part slow, like she was a little stupid. She pulled the phone free from where it hung on the wall, dialing the number that would allow for an outside extension. Handing the phone to him, he dialed with the hand holding the phone; still holding onto her hand. She gently ran her thumb over his knuckles, rather than risk pressure across the holes.

"Hello?" John asked, and Dean could hear the confusion in his voice.

"Dad?" Dean cringed when his voice cracked, and he could hear his own fear.

"Dean, you okay? What's, where's Jim?"

"I don't, it doesn't…Dad, you…I need you, you have…I don't know what to do, if you could just get here…" Half stifled sobs punctuated his words, and Dean hated himself for the tears crawling down his cheeks. Juliette gently slipped her other arm around his shoulders, offering him what comfort and safety that she could, and he appreciated it. However, she wasn't who he wanted. All the same he leaned into her, trying to hold the sobs in so that he could hear his father over the crappy extension.

"Dean, dude, calm down," John said, his voice hitting that lower timbre, one that always calmed Dean, but at the same time had the slightest hint of stress. "He's gone, okay? I saw the coroner reports, he's just a pile of ashes, okay?"

"No, Dad, you don't, I've seen him twice," Dean insisted, starting to go into hysterics. Not that he could help himself. He was barely aware of Juliette holding him closer, and tucking his head under her chin a little, while still allowing him to talk.

"Where's Jim?"

"I don't know!" Dean insisted, trying to get his father to understand that he needed him, not anyone else.

"Dean, there someone else in that room?"

"Just the nurse," he said impatiently, starting to realize that she was slowly managing to get him closer and closer to her. Most nurses didn't try, didn't care. Then again he wasn't sure if it was against protocol or not, but he appreciated it. Even if he was going to start working himself free again. Soon.

"Dean, I want to talk to her," John said, letting the air slowly out of his lungs, glad that Sam was still sleeping in his room. Glad that Dean hadn't called a few hours later, when they were planning on leaving. Dean looked at the phone, before looking at Juliette, and grudgingly handing it over. Juliette looked at him in vague surprise before taking it. She looked at Dean, before pulling the slightest bit away from him, and he realized that he wished she wouldn't. Begrudging himself that comfort, he pulled away from her the rest of the way, letting her know exactly how he felt about this betrayal.

"Hello, this is Juliette," she answered calmly, looking at Dean in confusion, before lightly gripping his hand that little bit tighter. She was still being gentle with his hand, but all the same she was somewhat amused to know that while he'd pulled away, he hadn't let go. She wouldn't let go, either.

"Is Jim there?"

"We made him go stay out in the waiting room, and told him that he wasn't allowed in the room until later tomorrow, or at least another nurse did, and I think he went home."

"If I give you a number, can you call it, and let Dean stay on the phone with me?"

"Yeah, of course, I've got paper right here," she said, since she carried a pen anyway, and had a little pad of paper generally to doodle on when she was bored working the desk. Holding the phone between shoulder and ear, she made 'mm-hmm' sounds at each time John broke up the numbers. "I don't know if it's a good idea to leave Dean alone right now," she told John clearly, watching the young man staring out the window, she could feel the tremors running through his body.

"He won't be alone," John told her grimly. "Now if you don't mind, I'd like to talk to my son now." He waited until he heard Dean asking Juliette where she was going, and told her not to leave the room. He could hear her calm explanation, telling him that he could either hang up on his dad, or he could wait a few minutes and she'd be right back, but it was his choice, and she couldn't do both. A few seconds later, he heard,

"Hi Dad, she'll be right back," and they both knew that there was a question mark at the end of that sentence.

"Yeah, she will be, okay dude, what're you seeing?"

"It's not a ghost, Dad, I've never lied to you before and I'm not now! You have to believe me!"

"Dude, calm down," John said gently, "Deano, I didn't ask you what it is, or isn't. I told you tell me what you saw."

"Yes sir," Dean breathed, "I…at Jim's, earlier today, I…I thought, I…"

"Not what you thought, what you saw."

"A face, in the window, when I woke up. I saw a face looking at me, and I know…it was Amos'." It wasn't easy to say that, especially not for Dean who didn't want to admit it to himself. "And then I felt sick in the hospital, woke up, and it was dark, and I looked up and there…in the window, he was there again, and when he moved it got a lot brighter in the room from the street lamps."

Dean paused and waited for a while.

"Dad?" he asked tentatively.

"Yeah, I'm here, I was just thinking," he told Dean quietly. "Just wanted to make sure Sam was still asleep, and safe." Not that Amos could be in two places at once, but he was going to make damn sure. Because if he was…then it was a whole different kind of hunt. "Dean, listen to me, alright?" he waited, knew Dean had just nodded, and then cringed for having done it, and cut him off before he could say 'yes sir', "Now, when Jim gets there, tell him to get together his hunter friends, have them do a sweep of the grounds, and to lock the church doors at night for a while. Even if it's not his usual policy, Amos'll just kill him instead of giving him a chance to do anything. And then you go out there with Jim, in daylight, and look for footprints outside that window. If he was standing there watching, there'll be some. And on the way out, you still with me dude?" John waited for Dean's soft confirmation, "and on the way out you check for footprints again. You hear me?"

"Yes sir, and if there aren't any?"

"Then don't forget the salt lines. But Dean? You find footprints, you call me. I'll make sure Jim has my new number."

"Aren't you coming here?" Dean asked, hearing his voice crack and being glad his father wasn't there to see the tears welling up.

"Soon as I can, but I can't ask Sam to sit in a car that long, and it's not like I'm going to tell him what's going on. Unless you want me to?"

"No!"

"Well, then I can't let him know in how much of a hurry we're in, since I promised we'd take our time, and we'd talk. Me'n him."

"About what?"

"About all this crap he keeps pulling."

"Oh."

"You gonna be okay dude?"

"I, yeah."

"That nurse back yet?"

"Yeah," Dean said, not having really noticed before that Juliette was back in the room gently holding his hand again.

"I'll be there as soon as I can."

"Okay," and before he could even say 'goodbye' John had hung up. Dean looked at Juliette. Without really thinking about it, he allowed himself to lean into her. She smiled and settled her arm around his shoulders again, shielding him from the view of the window, even if she had closed it. She'd turned on the dimmest light she could, rather than really wake him up all the way.

"You gonna be sick or you gonna be okay?"

"Why would I be sick?"

"When you're that scared, when aren't you?"

"I'm not scared."

"And I'm not stupid, either, so stop trying to lie to me."

"I'm not scared," he repeated, "Being scared would be easier," especially since he was terrified. But he didn't say that. If she was so smart, then she'd be able to figure it out. She watched him for a while.

"Trashcan's right there, and even if I've been stuck in these stupid scrubs for a double shift, I don't want out of them that badly yet," she told him. He wasn't really young enough for that kind of joking around, and at the same time was too young for it. He was just at that age when nothing anyone did was ever good enough. And at the same time it was all too much. "Pastor Jim's coming," she said with a gentle emphasis on 'pastor' given his reaction the last time she'd just said 'Jim.' She didn't hear a response, and figured that since she was supposed to have gone home hours ago, it didn't matter if she was there for a little longer. Arranging herself more comfortably on the bed, she wrapped both her arms around him, one of his arms ending up crossed lightly since he refused to let go of her hand. At this point she had a feeling he didn't realize he was holding on to her at all. It was fine, if it gave him any form of comfort, it was fine. "You still have my number, right?" she felt him nod against her, "good, because even if you just managed to get hurt and need some medical advice, you call, okay?" she felt him nod again. "I should make you promise me, shouldn't I?" he shook his head to that, and she laughed. What she wanted was to go home to her husband, and her baby girl. Instead, she was here with someone who needed her more. For a long time she hadn't been sure anyone would need her more than her baby. Life had a funny way of playing with people like that.

When Jim walked in he wasn't actually as surprised as anyone else might have been to see Dean comfortably wrapped in Juliette's arms. Dean looked up groggily at him, before smiling a little. It was a lazy smile, and if Jim hadn't known better, he would have betted on Dean being drunk.

"Mild sedative. Just to keep him calm, I asked first," she said to Jim's expression. "Honestly I think the exhaustion's doing more damage than anything." Which was true. If he hadn't been so tired the drugs might just have been enough to keep him sitting down instead of pacing. Mild. She'd promised. "It's not like he can leave right now, anyway," she shrugged. Dean sort of attempted to struggle free to Jim, but Jim shook his head.

"How about you lie down and get some sleep?" Jim suggested. Dean made a bit of a face, clearly too worn down to fight things. He and Juliette managed to get Dean lying down and comfortable. He was glad that he'd missed the panic, but he had a feeling that the worst of it wasn't over yet. Regardless of whether or not Amos was still around, things weren't right with Dean, and he wasn't close to having dealt with anything yet.

"What happened?"

"He woke up and started panicking, the monitors went nuts, he really freaked," she said.

"You been here all day?"

"I was just leaving when he flipped out," she said softly. "Figured I might go home when you came back, since he shouldn't be alone, but…" she gently smoothed her hand over his for the umpteenth time, "now I'm not sure that he'd be okay with just one person."

"He was completely alone when he woke up. When's your shift tomorrow?

Juliette looked at her watch, "About four hours. I might just go sleep in an on-call room or something," she said with a sigh.

"Well…" Jim trailed off, unsure of what to say to that. "I…understand how that works," he said with a laugh. "I end up sleeping a lot at the church," he shrugged, thankful that there was at least a nice place for him to sleep, he had no idea what it was like to sleep in a hospital but he doubted that it would be comfortable. Or personal. His little room was pretty decorated in little cards and knick-knacks and things from over the years.

"I guess you would," she said, smiling before pushing some strawberry blonde hair away from her face. Not saying anything like she wanted to, she lightly patted Dean's shoulder, and left the room.

Jim settled himself into one of the more comfortable looking chairs, given they all looked painful and uncomfortable. Pretty pleased he'd remembered to grab his bag, he worked on some of the paperwork he'd missed. Did the paperwork never end? Between preparing sermons, setting up lessons, and just about everything else on top of managing the money, he felt overwhelmed at times, regardless of an attempt at a personal life. Especially when the Winchesters were involved. Just being around John or his boys was an emotionally draining experience. Then again John managed to drain patience, too. Sighing, he pushed aside his errant bangs, and flipped to the next page. He'd re-opened the window so that he could keep an eye on it, see if anyone showed up. Although he felt after Dean had noticed, if Amos was there, he wasn't stupid enough to be coming back and showing his face. At least in that same spot.

Dean startled him when he pushed himself up, yawning a little. Jim held still, watching Dean as the boy peered blearily around the room, and laid back down. Then seemed to wonder where everyone was, and sat up again, eyes locking on Jim before he settled down and went back to sleep. Jim took a deep breath, and went back to work.

Doctor Brant walked back in by the time Dean was starting to wake up for the day, and started checking him over. "We finally have an open O.R." She looked at Jim, and then at Dean. Dean shrugged, and Jim sighed.

"Let me guess, more paperwork?"

"No, just a signature," she laughed, clearly just starting her shift. And probably thankful that she'd gotten some decent sleep. Jim could tell she was one of the more jaded doctors, and had probably seen more than was healthy for anyone to see. And then he looked at Dean. Easier to see it than live through it. Then again, how jaded were the Winchesters? Even Sam believed in the worst in people, and it took him almost as long as it did Dean to warm up to people. Only Dean never truly warmed up, he just stopped figuring that they were going to go insane and try to kill his family. And now? God only knew how Dean was going to start thinking about people after this.

Hours later, Dean was out cold on the bed, one hand across his stomach, fingers curled lightly in sleep against his side, the other folded up so his lax fingers rested almost on his shoulder. Jim could tell he'd started to shift, and had stopped midway. He looked for Juliette, and didn't see her. "Doctor Brant?"

"Yes?"

"Have you seen Juliette?"

"Oh, she scrubbed in, I told her to get another couple hours sleep, if you don't see her in three, page a nurse," she told Jim, looking Dean over fairly quickly. "He should be out until Juliette's back, so, if he wakes up before that, he should just go back to sleep, if he wakes up after, it means he's probably finally getting some decent rest. I hear he didn't sleep so well?"

"No, not really. Is there some point where if he doesn't wake up that I should worry?"

"Another twelve hours at the most? But the monitors should be reacting and Juliettle'll be here to check on him."

Jim didn't bother to wonder why Juliette was apparently the only nurse looking at Dean, and was allowed to sleep when he wasn't going to need her. She was probably good with the difficult patients, and even if that wasn't how things normally worked, Jim could see Dean had formed an attachment. He barely handled his own family well, and for someone else to have him comfortable enough to allow physical contact… was pretty amazing. Jim just hoped that Juliette would be there when Dean woke up. He had a feeling that it would really add to the trust that Dean was allowing himself to give. Considering he knew Dean just barely trusted him and Bobby. It was bizarre, but it was true. Sometimes Jim felt Dean only trusted him because John did.

Dean stirred once or twice, finally twisting himself so that his hips were perpendicular to the bed, and his shoulders were at a slight angle, the one on the bottom curled some as more weight was on it. That arm was curled so that the back of his hand was tucked under his cheek, the other arm just draped across the bed. He looked relaxed, and Jim hated to admit that even in sleep, Dean never seemed truly at peace. Although the drugs seemed to be helping.

When Juliette walked in a few hours later, Jim looked up at smiled. "When do I get to take him out of here?"

"Actually, they sent me to ask a few questions."

Jim frowned, he could tell Juliette was upset. "Alright, shoot."

"They want to know where his father is. And what happened, and I know that you've been trying to keep it left out, and I don't…with Dean, I see why, but the reaction he had last night, it's raising up some questions."

"First of all, his father works, and second of all I'm his legal guardian when his father's not around. It's there in the paperwork, in the medical records you should have received…"

"Yeah, and his brother?"

"Is with his uncle, on his father's side. Bobby Singer," since Dean's general fake last name was Singer so that there were a lot less questions asked, "Bobby's not real close to any hospitals or anything else, and with Dean like this, sometimes it's better for him to be away from his brother. Surely you know what it's like to have your own personal mini-stalker. Dean wasn't handling it well, and he just needed some peace and quiet. So, I was the best choice to take him, and Bobby took Sam. Dean's father, John, will be bringing Sam in a few days, if you really need to talk to the man, he'll be here." Which was a lie, John was going to drop Sam off, and then leave. But all the same.

"They…the extent of his injuries…"

"I told you, some ex-marine went after John, they'd been enemies in The Core, and he saw Dean and went for him. He was working at Sam's school, and he saw them all together, and went for the oldest. Guessing there was more opportunity, and maybe he just wasn't sick enough to go after a ten year old. I don't know, I don't know much about what happened, it's not like John really talks about his time in the military. Most people don't." Jim wasn't sure he liked this line of questioning, but he'd known it was going to be coming up soon.

Juliette looked uncomfortable.

"What else?" Jim asked softly, glad that Dean was still dozing, or at least doing a good job pretending.

"We talked with the other doctors, getting the records, you know the guy who attacked Dean? His house burned down."

"And the cops?"

"No evidence of foul play," she shrugged.

"So what's the question?"

"If John was a marine, would there be evidence?"

Jim actually felt relieved. "No, John wouldn't do that. He found Dean, sure, John's not stupid. But he wouldn't have ever gone ahead and killed someone. It's not in his nature, military man or no. If the guy burned to death, then it wasn't John's doing." Jim knew he was going to be praying for hours about this. Then Jim frowned. "Was the guy in the house?"

"They never found remains. That's why all these questions came up. Especially with Dean's...with the episode last night," she shrugged. "It's possible…I mean they found some blood, since the basement didn't totally burn, but most of the stuff left was Dean's, not anyone else's."

Jim glanced at Dean, concern painted across his features. "If it's true, and he really did see Dillinger out there, then he's not safe here anymore. I need to get him back to the parish," Jim told her.

"Dean saw him there, too, didn't he?"

"Yeah, but trust me, he's not getting in. We have some guys who stay in the church, homeless guys. And we have some church members, mostly cops and firemen, y'know, who stay with them to keep an eye on 'em. Since it's not exactly a good idea to leave a group of homeless men alone. There's plenty to steal, and even if I'd like to believe in the best in people, I often find myself disappointed," Jim ran a hand over his jaw, rubbing at his temple. "Dean'll be safer there."

"We could post a guard."

"And that will not make him feel better, he's likely to do something stupid if you do that," which was the God's honest truth. Dean did not always do the smartest thing when he felt threatened. Dean woke up, glancing at the window first, then when he saw Jim and Juliette he settled back onto the bed, letting his eyes droop closed. He was clearly tired, surgery or no. Jim wasn't sure what to do. "Let me stay, I can keep an eye on him, alert someone if anyone shows up in the window."

"I…"

"Please."

"If…alright," she said, knowing her career wasn't exactly safe if something went down because she didn't take action.

"Can you stay with him for a few minutes? I need to get some air."

"Of course," she pulled her hair-tie out, and combed her fingers through her hair. Pulling in a huge sigh, she let the air out slowly, calming herself as best she could. Things would be okay. Redoing the ponytail she watched Dean, wondering if he would ever really recover. He had to stay overnight, since he'd torn the stitches so many times, they wanted to make sure he had a day or two to actually recover in a controlled environment. It seemed like a better course of action.

Jim found his way outside Dean's window, ducking low, and saw that there were depressions in the dirt. Vaguely footprint shaped, but he wasn't sure how he felt. Settling his own shoe in the depression, he sighed. Someone had been outside the window, that was for sure. He would call together some hunters he knew, ask them to keep an eye on the church once he got Dean back. He wasn't sure if he could get Dean to his house without whoever was following them catching on. Assuming it was Amos, it wouldn't be hard to track down where a preacher lived. Some people wanted to meet at his home, while some preferred house calls, and other preferred to meet in the sanctity of the church itself. And if Dillinger had followed them this far, there was no guarantee that he couldn't go that little bit further. Standing back up, he walked back to the front of the building and sat down. He had no idea what Dillinger looked like to even look out for him. Pulling at his hair the slightest bit, he realized he hadn't shaved in a while when he dragged his hand down from his hair to his chin. He must look horrible.

He wondered where John was, he needed to call. But it wasn't like John didn't know Dean was in the hospital. Since half the point of sending Dean to him in the first place was to make sure he got medical care, and that he could stay there as long as needed. One more night. Dean wasn't going to like that, but there wasn't anything Jim could do about that. Not really. And it was a good thing, all things considered, he needed the time to heal, and the supervision, to make sure that he didn't overexert himself.

When Dean finally started to wake up, he noticed Juliette still sitting there, reading a book. He was a little confused as to where Jim was, but he wasn't too concerned. It wasn't like Jim was going to ditch him, but he didn't expect the pastor to stay there all day anyway. That was pretty ridiculous. People needed to shower, and eat, and all sorts of other things. Like go to work, do their jobs, Dean understood that. Probably better than anyone, given that John was never around because of how often he was working. Whether it was some hunt, or an actual day job that brought in some money. Dean preferred the jobs that had cash attached to them, it meant more food, and sometimes treats.

"Hey," Juliette smiled. "Finally up?"

Dean mumbled, but his throat was too dry to really say anything. Looking around, there was a glass of water at his bedside. He picked it up a little shakily and drained the glass, careful to go slow enough that she could warn him off if it was going to hurt him or something stupid. That and he found that every time he tried to chug water, someone got mad at him. No good reason why, but he'd learned. Sam left him alone, though. Thankfully. Bobby usually just stared at him, and then shook his head wondering why on earth it was necessary. And something about Jim always had Dean on his best table manners. Probably the black suit and white collar. "Yeah, I'm up," he said, surprised at how scratchy his voice was. "How long?" he croaked.

"You woke up a few times, but probably a good six hours or so," she said, glancing at her watch, then her eyebrows raised in surprised. "Okay, so more like ten. You look better."

"Feel better," he searched around the room, wondering if there was more water somewhere. She correctly interpreted his expression, and took the cup away.

"I'll get you some more water, you gonna be okay? Hungry?"

"Not for the craptastic food you guys have here," he told her, grinning a little. It wasn't like he could help himself, that stuff was horrible. He didn't like jell-o, it was weird, and it wasn't like the actual food was any better. He sort of picked at the fruit because at least he knew what it was, and then if there was pudding, he was all over it. For all he hadn't really been there long enough to have more than a couple meals. They usually don't serve food before a surgery anyway. Thank god.

"You're losing weight."

His only response was to roll his eyes. There was no way anyone could tell in two days. But she was right, he had lost weight. Mainly because he hadn't been eating because it hurt, and he didn't keep it down if he ate more than a certain amount. He'd managed to keep most of it hidden for a while, up until he'd fallen running. Then he hadn't been able to hide it anymore. Especially not with Sam getting their father. It was something Dean could easily forgive him for because then he actually got real food, and the pain was gone. He was especially fond of the morphine drip that was keeping him comfortable. Given how much pain he had been without it before. The worst part of leaving the hospital was probably going to be the fact he had to take actual pills to stave off the pain. He hated taking pills. Making a slight face at the thought, he flopped back down on the bed, tugging up his shirt to look at the stitches, and was so relieved to see that there was no swelling. No angry redness, which meant no infection. Maybe this time he'd have a chance of healing all the way. Especially with no one to kick the crap out of him. And no scared dad to push him too far and make things worse.

Juliette brought him more water, and he felt she should have brought an entire cooler when he took another sip. He was so thirsty. "Thanks," he told her in relief, taking another long drink. Settling himself more comfortably, "When do I get to leave?"

"Tomorrow morning."

He choked on the water, green eyes widening in annoyance. "That's not funny."

"And I wasn't kidding," she told him. "Given how many times you've torn those stitches, and the raging infection in half those cuts, we want to keep an eye on you, and make sure that you actually heal. Don't really think you can blame Doctor Brant."

"Yeah, I can," he told her, "I want to leave, and if that's the person stopping me? Pretty easy to blame them."

"Why'd you want to get out of here so much?"

"You're joking," he told her, lips pursing as they went flat against his teeth revealing dimples in the curve of his cheek closer to his nose. His eyebrows puckered slightly, the shape above his left eyebrow reminiscent of the Nike symbol. "For one, I want to take a shower, two? I want real food. Three? I want accessible water." Four? He wanted his father. Five? He wanted his brother. Six? If Amos knew where he was, he was safer in the parish than he was in a hospital. Amos could claim to be a visitor and come in and kill him. Or worse. John was wrong, death would have been a blessing.

"I was seeing it from a medical standpoint," she laughed. He stuck his tongue out, then blushed. That was something he hadn't done in years, not since Sam had been little enough it caused him to laugh hysterically. "Think about it, painkillers, the ability to make sure you actually heal… and I can fix the whole showering thing. If you want."

He considered it for several minutes. "Sounds good to me. Unhook me from this thing."

"If you try to escape, I will personally make sure you're sedated for the rest of you time here. Understand me?"

"Yes ma'am." Catch me if you can.

"I can see that look. I will stand outside that room." She carefully unhooked the monitors and made sure he wasn't bleeding, holding onto the crook of his elbow and making him hold it above his heart. They couldn't put it in the back of his hand, not with the damage done, or the bandaging. "And we're going to have to re-do all the gauze. It'll give me a chance to check on how well you're healing anyway." She noted the face he made about that idea, and knew it was just because he didn't like it when they messed with his legs.

Grateful for the shower, Dean dragged it out as long as he could, but when the pain started to be too much for him, he turned the water off, and dried himself off. She was going to be able to tell that he'd overexerted himself. Not even close to pleased, he wondered how well he could fake it. Either way he was glad to see actual pants and a proper t-shirt instead of that thrice-damned hospital gown. Dragging clothes on, he wasn't exactly thrilled about having to take them back off so that this half-stranger could poke and prod at him. Even if he was starting to trust her. Even like her a little. Her number was tucked into the pocket of his jeans, where it'd be safe when he could finally leave. He knew he'd never call it, not ever, but it didn't mean he was going to ever lose it. Ten, twenty years later, he knew he'd still have it. In his wallet, in his duffel, a pocket, he'd always have it.

Letting her wrap an arm around him, since he was shaky and he knew it, he reluctantly went back to the room. Helping her get the gauze off his hands, and everywhere else he could reach, since his back wasn't really an option, and he barely tolerated her checking him over. It wasn't fun, but he had to admit he was thankful for the wrapping over his hands. Especially with the gauze pad over the wounds, so that when he touched stuff he didn't hurt himself. He was also thrilled to see that nothing was infected. The moment she was done, he was asleep, not that he'd meant to. But he'd worn himself out pretty good.


	14. Chapter 13

_I hope this isn't a repeat chapter. I've had this written, probably for over a year. I think this might be short, don't ask, I don't know. But in light of almost 100 reviews I decided to stick this up. I can't promise there's more beyond the epilogue (the first thing I wrote for this story) but re-watching episodes from the earlier season has sparked some interest. Please, please review. I am trying desperately to figure out where to go from here. Suggestions are welcome. _

**Chapter 13**

John looked over at Sam, grateful that he was asleep. It gave him some time to think. Pulling the car over, he left the engine running, pressing his forehead against the steering wheel, hands gripping it so tightly that more than the knuckles turned white. It wasn't like this was easy. Amos was probably alive, and hunting his son. And he couldn't just rush there without alerting Sam to something being wrong. And Jim knew hunters. God knows he'd provided a safe haven to more than enough of them. And advice, and holy water. Lots of holy water.

What was he supposed to do? He'd thought Dean was doing better, and he knew that he should have been watching closer. Dean was a master at faking things. Hiding things, he always had been. Even when he was little. Mary always had to spend hours coaxing him into telling her what was wrong, when he did things like fall and scrape his knees. Slamming his palm against the wheel, he felt it jar his head, and wondered what it had been like for Dean. Waiting for so long, wondering when he was coming. It must have been agonizing. When even death was preferable? He'd failed his son. And done everything that was possible to do wrong, wrong. Sam stirred, and John looked over, before pulling the car back into the road. He should have gotten there faster, and just spared Dean all of this. All the pain? He would take it as his own in a heartbeat, anything to make it stop for Dean, to let him heal all the way. And there was nothing he could do.

Leaving Dean in the hospital hadn't seemed like the best of ideas, especially when Dean hated them so much, and there were so many questions. Even if no one had found Amos' body, even if John hadn't really been questioned at all about how he had found Dean, it hadn't been safe. They'd had to leave. When all John had wanted to do was stay, let Dean stay with his friends, where he could have…would have been happy. Between the two of them, Lily and Pete, they would have kept him on that couch for days longer than he'd needed to really recover, monitoring him all the time, especially at school. When he'd been well enough to go back. And John had the sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that Pete and Lily would have been more in tune with his son, so that they would have noticed he was hurting, and kept him from making things worse. John swore under his breath rather than wake Sam.

That was one conversation he didn't want to have. If Sam asked him about Dean one more time, John was fairly sure he was going to kill him. He never tried to lie and say that Dean was fine, at least. It wasn't like Sam would believe it. 'Better' was what he kept saying. At least he hoped that was the truth. The phone call had shaken him, he'd never heard Dean sound that scared, at least not that he could remember. Even when nightmares woke him up and he crawled into bed next to Mary, he never sounded that scared. When Sam was asleep, it was easier to floor the gas and really try to get there faster. Dean needed him, and for once, he was going to be there. He hadn't, not when it'd really counted, and now he needed to be there. Had to make up for some of his mistakes, if it was even possible.

Dean just about had a heart attack when his father burst into the room, hauling him up into his arms. His initial reaction was to fight his father, terrified it was Amos. The moment he was able to take a breath, he knew it was his dad. It was just that smell. The smell of the Impala, the gunpowder, just...Dad. John had Dean's head tucked under his chin, son against his chest.

"I won't let him near you, understand me?" John said at a length, and Dean wondered what was wrong with his voice, it sounded strained.

"Dad, you okay?"

"I'm fine, dude. Just like always."

Dean refrained from calling his father's bluff, and was content to stay pressed against John's chest. He felt safe. Half wondering if it was a dream, he decided that pinching himself wasn't going to do him any good, given if he did wake himself up he'd probably have torn some stitches. It would be just his luck. "Where's Sam?"

"With Jim. I dropped him at the church and came here. Didn't mean to scare the hell out of you like that."

"It's fine," Dean mumbled, even though he'd all but had a heart attack. "Just glad you're here," he admitted. He yawned, curling into his father's chest as much as he could. It wasn't often he could take advantage of moments like this. Almost never, actually.

"Yeah, I'm sure it's fine," John chuckled. "How're you holding up?"

"Nurse says I'm healing good," he shrugged thin shoulders against John's collarbone.

"Not what I meant."

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not." John's voice had this sighing quality to it, as he paused after saying no, the word coming out without him really opening his mouth, giving it a stunted sound. "You called me, and you were freaked. One more time, how're you holding up?"

"Better," Dean said vaguely, at least it was the truth. "Don't ditch me again, okay?"

John chuckled. "You know you like staying with Jim just fine, and I wasn't ditching you. Hell, I woulda stuck Sam with you if I was. That kid drives me nuts."

Dean chuckled weakly, finding it almost impossible to stay awake. He knew that he wasn't on the bed anymore. "We leaving?"

"No, tomorrow," John told him. "When you're supposed to. I'm not doing this wrong again this time."

Dean actually laughed, before he yawned.

"I wasn't joking," John said, sounding slightly affronted.

"I know," Dean chuckled helplessly.

"Are you high?"

"No," Dean said, pulling away slightly, so he could look at his father's face, prove it really was his dad. No one else was in the room. It was when he first noticed it was night. "You snuck in," Dean sounded awestruck.

"Yeah, well." John settled himself on the bed, propping the pillows up so he could rest his back against them, holding Dean against his chest.

"We are so screwed," Dean whispered.

"I'll be here when you wake up." When there was no response John look down at his son as best he could, trying to peer into his face, and realized from his breathing that he was out cold.

When the sun rose, Dean started to shift around. He always had a little trouble with his voice when he first woke up, not really able to talk without his voice cutting in and out like a bad phone connection. He gave up after a matter of seconds, figuring his father was asleep, and allowed himself to go back to sleep. John let out a breath, glad Dean had just fallen asleep again. It was good for him, and John knew it. He doubted Dean had slept well for a while. The boy deserved some good rest.

Juliette walked into the room, and stopped in shock, seeing a strange man holding her patient. Her first reaction was that Dillinger had him, and her hand went for the call button before the man looked up at her. He looked haggard, his beard wasn't quite full, showing he probably shaved most of the time. His hair was darker than Dean's, borderline black and swept back from his forehead. Or had been, since he'd run his fingers through it so many times it was a mess. From what little of his clothes she could see, he was a rumpled mess, and hadn't even bothered to take his jacket off. Her hand hovering over the button, she saw Dean's jaw, Dean's cheekbones, and something of his manner in that gaze, and she let her hand drop to her side.

"John Singer."

"Juliette."

"Nice to finally meet you."

"Same." He watched in concern when Dean shifted again in his arms. As soon as his son settled he relaxed again. "Figured I'd pick him up, Jim knows, but you can always call."

"You are his father."

"I know," John smiled, figuring that Dean's condition had not let the nurse to think kindly of him. But…no, this was his fault. He could have prevented this. Dean was right, if he'd just been smart enough to figure things out, then Dean would have been safe the entire time. Or he at least could have saved him sooner. Kissing the top of Dean's head before resettling it under his chin, "He looks better, thank you."

She had to admit that his voice was pleasant, a deep rumble with a soft quality to it. He seemed trustworthy. She saw so much of Dean in him, and she knew that there was something else, too, in that boy. But she knew that his mother was dead, there was no way that she was alive, and she wasn't listed as a guardian. No mother would give up a child like that. Not ever. "You're welcome, but Dr. Brant did a lot of the work."

"Then I'll thank him? Her? Too."

"Her. Your pastor friend requested that no particularly strange men deal with your son. Probably hoped we'd be able to avoid this Dillinger person that way."

John laughed. "Dean doesn't like being patronized. Last time a male doctor decided to check him over the poor guy got his ass handed to him."

She laughed, looking at the thin body in John's arms. But somehow she believed it. "Why'd he do that?"

"The guy told him he wasn't allowed to leave, and Dean didn't agree with that assessment."

Juliette smiled a little, and John could see the fondness there. "He's got a will alright," she grinned.

"When can I get the poor kid out of here?"

"Let me get Dr. Brant to check him over, then you can check him out. Pretty sure he'd crawl up the walls anyway if he didn't get out of here today." She left the room, figuring if Dean was comfortable enough to sleep in his father's arms, the man wasn't a threat. She was so wrong and so right, she would have laughed and cried to know the truth. In some ways she was relieved that she would be able to spend more time with her family, but she was worried about Dean.

Dean woke up, tolerated the necessary evils to leave the hospital, and didn't bother to protest when John insisted on carrying him out. He wasn't going to put up with that crap later, but for that one moment, it was fine. Maybe things would be okay for a while. More like things were before, back when his father loved them. The thought sent pain through Dean in tangible waves that rocked his body, their father still loved them. Mary may have taken all their hearts with her, but there was something left. Father to son, son to father. He wouldn't do the things he did if he didn't love them. Even if it was a warped, stupid version of what love should be, he still did love them.

He had to.

Otherwise none if it meant anything.

None of it was worth it.

He had to.

He did.

Dean was happy to be back at the parish, giving the cross his customary hate-filled glance before dumping his duffel in the dormitory styled room, seeing Sam's stuff already there. He heard voices in the church, and heard one he was particularly fond of. Camilla. Not a crush per say, more of a make-out buddy. He remembered easily when he'd been maybe a year or two younger, they'd been dumped at the church –surprise- and since he'd refused Sunday School and Youth Group, Jim had asked him to at least be useful in the nursery. Dean knew he was good with kids, and he'd figured since there were three in there at the time, fine. He'd had one in his lap, one snug to his side, and the third was playing fairly quietly with some cars. He'd been reading to the other two. Sam had always liked it, and Dean _hated _when babies cried. Especially…Sam hadn't stopped crying for Mary, not for…not for years, it felt like. But more parents had been coming, and dumping kids, and more, and soon enough Dean was overwhelmed entirely. He was trying to get one of the toddlers to the changing table, while stopping another group from fighting over a stuffed bear, and another little girl to stop crying because she'd tripped and got a rug burn, and things had just dissolved into general chaos. Camilla had come in, since she apparently usually helped in the nursery, taking the little boy from Dean, allowing him to deal with some of the other mess, picking up the crying girl and shushing her, dealing with both of them easily.

He'd been so relieved to have help, and they'd kept the kids in check, much to his surprise. And the parents, when they saw how many toddlers had been in the room versus how few helpers. After that, Camilla had kissed Dean's cheek, telling him he was cute with kids, and he'd caught her cheek to kiss her lips, to both their surprise. But no displeasure. He'd seen her off an on, generally throughout the year, and they often found corners to kiss in. It never went past that, he never felt her up, she never touched him anywhere she shouldn't. It wasn't just because they were in a church, but for some reason it didn't seem right. But if Camilla was around, maybe Meredith was, and where Meredith was, Sam was. Meredith was her aunt, and they both sang in the choir. Camilla was a soprano, and Dean didn't know much beyond that. Meredith sang first alto, but preferred second. Random information to know, but it was something he heard the two talking about more than once.

Sam was there, just like he'd guessed, and he laughed when Sam launched himself at him, lifting his brother up in a hug.

"Don't hurt yourself!" Sam half shrieked, pulling away so fast Dean almost dropped him.

"I'm okay, I'm okay," he said, trying not to laugh when Sam peered at him, considering. He looked better, and he knew it.

"What happened!?" Camilla asked, across the room in seconds, it was no secret what they got up to, touching his cheek in concern as she tilted his head so she could see better.

"Got in a fight, and I lost," he grinned lazily. "But I'm fine. Also, Dad took us hiking a while ago, and I took a bad fall. That's the only reason I lost, otherwise I woulda kicked that dude's…butt." First of all, he didn't swear in front of Sam, and second of all not in a church. He could almost feel his father's calloused hand hitting him upside the head.

"Good thing you survived then," she said, making sure to purse her lips just that slightest bit to make them fuller. She was wearing lip gloss, clear, but he could smell it. Vanilla. Not fair. He probably smelled like antiseptic, and…death. He knew that hospitals smelled like death, even if his father disagreed with him. Dean knew it was all for show. They both knew.

Dean looked over at Meredith. "How're you doing?" he asked.

"I don't think you're the one who gets to ask that question," she pointed out. Then smiled. "Figure I can't ask you for a hug if you look like that, so you're getting away scot free this time."

Grinning easily, "You bring cookies?" he asked hopefully.

"No," she watched his face fall, "I brought some apple pie, hope that makes up for it."

Dean hugged her, making her laugh. "Good 'nuff," he told her, before looking back at Camilla. "I gotta unpack, I'll see you around." His body was still basking in the benefits of the morphine that hadn't yet worn off. He knew it would, in some ways he was already starting to hurt again just a little. But Dean knew he was on a whole other kind of high: his dad was there. Taking care of him and Sam. Being their dad again…Jim was gonna chew his ass out, and Dean knew it. And it made him smile a little, because he could picture the injured indignation on his father's face.

Camilla followed after a decent enough amount of time, finding him actually unpacking his bag like he'd said. When she walked in he looked up and smiled.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine."

"Good."

--

Jim stared at John. "Can't believe you showed. You sticking around?"

"Not for long, just long enough to keep this mess contained," his voice the low rumble Dean associated with impending doom.

"You do realize these boys need you around?"

"Yeah, and they don't seem to mind stayin' with you, or I wouldn't leave 'em here."

"No, you'd leave them in some two-bit motel, alone, wondering when and if you're even going to come back!" Jim rarely allowed his anger to show, but sometimes it was the only thing John understood.

"That's not true! I always leave them with orders so they know what to do!"

"These aren't soldiers! They're children, _your_ children, Mary's children, and you're treating them like soldiers in 'Nam! You may have hopped ranks fast, John, you may have seen some action there, doesn't change the fact you're a father! Doesn't change the fact it's over, and you have to let go sometime!"

"And there's a new war Jim! You know what's out there! What'm I supposed to do? Leave my boys alone to deal with that? Not prepare them, are you crazy? They have to know!"

"It ever occur to you that you could do the same thing without hurting them so much?" Jim managed to bring his voice down, trying to sound calmer. More rational.

"What? Draw little pictures and tell it to them starting 'once upon a time'? What kind of bullsh-…crap do you want me to pull? You trying to tell me what happened to Dean was my fault? What about your god and the whole 'everything happens for a reason' bit?"

"I've never preached that, and I never will. God gave people free will. Which means that stuff happens, and since people went ahead and decided to screw things up, well they dug their grave and they can lie in it! John," he pinched the bridge of his nose. "God's watching, He cares, and He listens. But if you're not praying, it doesn't mean that things are magically going to go your way. In fact there's no promise of that, either. There's a promise of persecution and pain, and of Heaven, John. Not some magic eight ball that always solves your problems! Don't blame what Amos did on God." He'd found himself calming while he spoke, funny how that worked.

"So is this still part of some master plan? Some good going to come out of this?"

"It could. You could extrapolate all you want, say it's to tell you not to leave your boys alone, tell you not to bring them on hunts, tell you to settle down and be a father to them! But you could also say maybe you were supposed to move on, or that it was the wrong state, wrong building. You can blame it on everything, and try to divine as much meaning as you want from the whole thing. It doesn't mean that there's much more to it than some psycho with a grudge went after your son, tortured him, and…he almost did something you could never make better. In fact you probably…there's nothing."

"You think I don't know that!?" John exploded. "You think I don't know what a mess I've made out of things!? Damnit Jim! I'm trying, I'm trying to make things right, I have to….I have to find what killed Mary, I have to know. I can't…I can't just let it go, forget what happened, she was on the ceiling Jim, she was plastered to the ceiling of Sam's nursery, and she died. Not some electrical shortage, nothing stupid like that. Faulty wiring couldn't kill her. And I'm just supposed to let that go?"

"No, you're not," Jim said softly, hearing the tremble in John's voice. Hearing the pain, and that John needed forgiveness. "Mary…you could never have prevented her death, and you know that."

"If I knew then what I knew now…"

"Then you wouldn't have been the man she loved. You wouldn't have been the father Dean wishes he still had, you know that? He misses you all the time, even when you're there, and you're too stupid to see it." Jim let a bitter smile twist his lips. "Then again, it does generally take a woman to point it out to you, even when you know that something's wrong. You should have…" he just shook his head.

"You have women in your church messing with my private affairs?"

"You dump your boys here, and they get stuck in the church whether they like it or not. You've met people here, you've been here for a few hours at a time, even if it's just the free food," Jim pointed out. "People have seen you with your sons. Just because you're so focused on revenge that you're blinded to everything else doesn't mean that everyone else lives their lives like that."

"So what? I should just focus on this hippy-Jesus-Loves-You crap? That'll make everything better? It'll take away my son's pain, it'll give him his mother back? He'll forget what almost happened to him? Sam'll finally get whatever it is he wants so bad he's acting like a real brat, and me? I'll what? My life'll make sense again? I'll be able to keep my boys safe and protected from people like Amos and things like what killed Mary? That's crap and you know it. Saying 'what would Jesus do' isn't going to fix anything for anyone. Especially since he probably would have just damned them to hell anyway."

Jim just stared at John for a few minutes, wondering what kind of response that required.

"No. Not physically. Did Mary believe? Is that why you're so against it? John, sometimes peace of mind is more important than some of those other things. So, yeah, it can take away some of Dean's pain, knowing that there's something untouchable and everloving and everlasting in his life. Is that a crime? You could find the same comfort. Religion is flawed John, we all know it. But finding peace with a God of love isn't such a bad thing. Gandhi said that he loved our Christ but not our Christians. Religion is flawed. Okay? We try, we try to follow the example of something better. What're you following John? Anger, hate? Revenge? Are those things really what you want your legacy to your sons to be?"

---

Dean pulled away from Camilla, he smiled a little at her, trying to hide how good he felt. He liked the feel of her hand on his cheek, the way her lips were soft against his. However, he wasn't too thrilled with the sticky vanilla gloss on his face, but he'd live. It was worth it to kiss her. The softness of it all, the easy comfort. And to him, knowing that even as messed up as he had to look, he'd been avoiding mirrors, someone still wanted to kiss him. And spend time with him. A girl. A pretty girl with auburn hair and brown eyes. One that actually talked to him sometimes, and still found time to talk to him more. Didn't dismiss him as stupid or weird. He wondered when he was going to lose her the way he had Lily and Pete…and leaned in to kiss her again, to hold the moment, so at least he wouldn't forget her. Wouldn't lose this moment. Her lips were easily pulled against his, her body near his, barely touching as his hand cupped her cheek, the other resting easily around her back. The comfort of her. Dean's lips smiled against hers.

"What?"

"Just thinking about how much I missed this," he said between gentle kisses, his voice a breathy whisper. He could almost forget Amos, almost forget the challenge to who he was, his father's protection…

---

"You honestly think that's what this is about?"

"It's not about vengeance?"

"No, it's about protection! I'm not letting this happen to anyone else, I'm not letting anyone, or anything ever touch my family again!"

"Because that worked so well this time around, didn't it?"

John's jaw hardened; clearly defining a slight tick in his cheek. "I know how to take care of my family!"

"Which is why you leave them here with me, or with Bobby, or whoever you can find to take them."

"If you don't want them around –"

"You know that's not the case, but if you want to make it that way, then that's your problem John, not mine."

"Seems to me like a lot of things are my problem!"

"John, everyone has a lot of problems, they just try to fix them in a lot more normal ways!"

"And how normal are these problems other people get to face?!"

"Sit down, calm down. The boys are going to hear you, along with anyone else in the church."

---

When Sam walked into room, Dean had finished unpacking his clothes; Camilla was sitting on one of the other beds, watching him while they talked. Settling his small body on the floor near the foot of his bed, Sam listened absentmindedly. School, they were talking about school. Dean actually knew the difference between the Civil and Revolutionary War. Huh. He also noticed that Dean was avoiding mentioning Lily or Pete. Whenever Camilla brought up her friends, or the things they'd done, Dean just laughed a little, or winced sympathetically, and didn't mention any friends of his own. It was obvious the girl had noticed, and was trying to hint that she'd like to hear about his own exploits, but she wasn't pushing.

Sam vaguely remembered Camilla, more from when Meredith was babysitting her, and then visited the church. Meaning that Dean had a playmate his own age, and that Sam was the third party left to tag along behind the older two. But he hadn't minded all that much, because it either meant that he got an extra cookie from Camilla's aunt, or that Dean was told to be on his best behavior. And when Dean was told that, he really did behave well.

_now for the interactive portion!! Tell me what you want to see happen._

_I have a vote for Amos to go thru a meatgrinder. _

_I have no idea if this chapter was beta'd or not, I would assume so, it's so old. So thanks to Merisha as always, potentially PA Davis, and then GoddessLaughs, as always. (The meatgrinder is her idea). _

_Pretty please for reviews? To see more?  
_


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